
Class '^ S r^ S 6 6 



Book 



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CQPsmGm DEPosm 



FUN, 
THOUGHT 

and 

FAITH 



by ' 
CHARLES R. COOK 



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JUN 18 i920 



©CU571334 



V 



COPYRIGHT 
BY THE AUTHOR 




MRS. CHARLES R. COOK 




CHARLES R. COOK 



INDEX 



Aiidersonville 96 

A Plea for the Farmers Exemption from the Draft 57 

A Story Quaint and Old 45 

Awake 13 

A Word Fitly Spoken is Like Apples of Gold 

in Pictures of Silver 1 66 

A Word to Germany 48 

Children's Day 90 

Christmas Carol 70 

Clover Leaves 25 

Confidence 93 

Contented on the Farm 2 

Cosey Parlor Song 16 

Defects 77 

Don't You Ever Get Discouraged 84 

Faith, My Aeroplane 94 

For the Sixtieth Wedding Anniversary of 

Deacon O. P. Chamberlain and Wife 8 

How Old Santa Claus Looks 68 

How the Watchword changed 47 

Hurrah for the Navy 50 

If it Wasn't Tax Time ._._. 60 

If We Only Had the Grace 89 

I Have a Clever Doctor. 26 

In Honor of Walter J. Buckell 4 

In the Autumn o' the Year 23 

In Memory of a Little Friend of Mine Who 
Died at the Age of Three Years and Six 
Months 18 

It's Up to the Navy 59 

''Memory Day" 78 



INDEX 



Michigan 3 

Old Robin 20 

Our Club Dinner 41 

Our Marines at Chateau Thierry 53 

O, What Power There is in a Smile 15 

Parody on the Watch by the Rhine 51 

Plea for the Country Church Service 79 

Prayer to the Spirit 92 

Progressive Farmers 42 

Rescue of Santa Claus . 72 

Ring On, Church Bells 87 

Sermonette in Rhyme 88 

Some Funny Dreams __._. 43 

Still Game * 38 

Sunday 67 

Tater-Digging Time 32 

Thanksgiving 82 

*'The Bach's Isle" 37 

The Bouquet 86 

The Christian's Consolation 64 

The City and Country Farmers 52 

The Dream 75 

The Electric Age 35 

The Ever Onward Progress 1 

The Farmer and the War 34 

The Farmer's Part 58 

The Farmers Response to President Wilson's Call 49 

The Girl I Love 3 

The High Cost of Living 6 

The Kind of Man I'd Have Him Be 74 



INDEX 



The Liberty Harvest for 1919 50 

The Man Who Took My Place 62 

The Midnight Runaway 27 

The New Year 19 

The Picture Group 22 

The Seventieth Wedding Anniversary of Deacon 

0. P. Chamberlain and Wife 10 

The Things We Haven't Done 21 

The Touch of Faith 65 

The Reception 40 

To My Old Chum 17 

To the Gossips 14 

Walt Mason 12 

We're to Behold His Glory 95 

What Blessed Comfort 84 

What Was the Cause ? 33 

When Teddy Meets a Bear 24 

When the Pipes Are Frozen Up 30 

When Our Boys Come Marching Home 55 

Where Santa Claus Dwells 70 



*THE EVER ONWARD PROGRESS*' 

There's an ever onward progress 

In the world, so I've been taught; 
Every day makes some advancement 

That the mind of man hath wrought; 
Every day some new invention, 

Every day some system framed 
That leads up to better living, 

Making steps by progress gained. 

If you cannot help, don't hinder; 

Stand aside, my brother, and 
Clear the track for thrift and progress, 

If you cannot lend a hand. 
Why resist a thing so mighty, 

'Tis a force you cannot stay; 
Stand aside, I say, there's danger 

Blocking up the king's highway. 

Climb on board progressive measures. 

Let us with the vanguard ride; 
In the past let's not be living, 

Neither to old system tied. 
If we cannot see quite clearly 

All young progress sees and feels, 
Better ride the snorting war horse 

Than be crushed beneath his heels. 

Some of us old chaps get tender 

Dwelling in the golden past. 
When we thought the world was sweeping 

Onward, upward, mighty fast. 
Then, we, too, were in the battle, 

Some new principle to prove; 
And we shouted 'midst the clamor: 

*'Stand aside, the world do move." 

Shall we hinder, then, young heroes. 
Who would farther progress make? 

Let us still be young in spirit 
For humanity's own sake. 



Though we have no strength for battle, 

VVe can near the heroes ride ; 
Cheering them to greater effort 

With a father's honest pride. 

For the world has not accomplished 

Half the master mind's intent ; 
We are infants still in progress 

With a strength that's only lent. 
Yet that strength is all sufficient 

For the task we have in hand ; 
Let our watchword be attainment, 

Till we've wrought what God has planned. 



CONTENTED ON THE FARM 

I'm rated as a thinker, a prea(:her and a poet; 
But I'm a farmer, too, and I want the world to 

know it. 
For I'm a happy creature, and the proudest ever 

seen 
When I get behind the plow with my three-horse 

team. 

I love the scenes of nature, and the broad and open 

fields, 
Where the air is pure and bracing, and the earth 

its bounty yields. 
And I would not give the freedom I enjoy upon the 

farm 
For the city's wealth and splendor and all its social 

charm. 

I'm a child of nature's rearing; I cannot love the 
mart, 

Where men contend for wealth and fame, and 
fashion plies her art. 

The noisy din and clatter of the city's busy street, 

Has no great or strong attraction for my country- 
loving feet. 



And so I am contented here upon the old homestead, 
To guide the gleaming plowshare on, by which the 

world is fed. 
And join my thankful whistle with the wnld bird's 

happy song, 
And to feel that I am helping to feed the world's 

great throng. 

MICHIGAN 

Within the arms of the Great Lakes, 

There lies the queen of all the states. 

A land of cities, farms and mines, 

A land of sturdy oaks and pines ; 

Of rivers, inland lakes, and rills, 

Broad plains, great rocks, and rolling hills. 

Where once the Red man in his pride, 

Stalked the deer, or wooed his bride: 

And oft in deadly combat stood 

Against his rivals of the wood ; 

Or where the mild sheep yields its fleece, 

Smoked silently the pipe of peace. 

Her name will rhyme with Uncle Sam, 

If you pronounce it MichiGAN. 

THE GIRL I LOVE 

The girl I love is lovely, 

Her hair is an auburn hue, 
Her eyes are sky-like, bright and fair 

And she is kind and true. 
Her red lips are the sweetest 

That ever I have seen. 
Her form is like a fairy's. 

She is a very queen. 

Chorus 
I love her for her beauty, 

I love her for her grace, 
I love her for the lovelight 

In her bright eyes I can trace ; 



I love her for her virtue 

Which beauty far outweighs. 

I love her, and she loves me, too, 
And this my love repays. 

The girl I love is pure 

As the lilies of the vale ; 
Yes, as pure as the roses 

That bloomed in Sharon's dale. 
Her heart is warm and tender 

As the heart of any child ; 
Her kiss is like a zephyr, 

And her temper's sweet and mild. 

IN HONOR OF WALTER J. BUCKELL 
(Born June 13, 1836) 

Dear father, we extend to you 

Our greetings warm, and welcome true, 

On this your birthday, natal morn. 

Back to the farm where you were born ; 

Where first you laid your head to rest 

Upon your mother's snow white breast. 

And drew the nectar warm and sweet. 

And felt her dear heart throb and beat; 

And all for simple love of you 

While all things seemed so strange and new, 

And all of life seemed Just to be. 

How different at eig-hty-three. 

Where w^hen a barefoot boy you played 

Beneath the maple's ample shade. 

Or waded in the babbling brook 

And fished with bended pin for hook, 

Or on its mossy bank you lay 

And watched the clouds dissolve away. 

Till mother's call reminded you 

Of some slight task you'd failed to do. 

And father's strong correcting hand 

Enforced each parent's wise command. 

What then seemed dull and hard to thee 

Seems just and good at eighty-three. 



From here you trudged away to school 
To learn to heed the master's rule, 
And struggle through the lessons taught, 
Without a seeming wish or thought 
Beyond the youthful mirth and joys 
Found mingling with the girls and boys. 
But which in after years proved true 
A blessing and a help to you. 
The master strict and firm, yet kind, 
Molding alike the heart and mind. 
You know how much it meant to thee 
Now looking back at eighty-three. 

And when at last to manhood grown 
You bid good-bye to friends and home. 
And broke the ties that bound you here 
To be a Groveland pioneer; 
And build for you and her whose smile 
Was born of Cupid's winning wile, 
A second home, whose every part 
Should be subservient to her art, 
And mirror forth your manly pride 
In her w^ho should become your bride. 
How like a dream it seems to be 
Now looking back at eighty-three. 

Then followed years of toil and pain. 
Of joy and sorrow, loss and gain, 
Bereavements that cut deep the heart. 
And then the days seemed long and dark. 
And every measure of success 
Seemed mixed with failure, more or less, 
Which is the common lot of men, 
Both joy and sorrow comes to them. 
Yet thinking of it all today, 
Methinks down in your heart you say. 
It's worth it all, and just to be 
A great grandpa at eighty-three. 



Some years ago your doctor said 
In three months more you would be dead, 
And sleeping with your lineal race 
Who in the grave had found a place. 
How little then your doctor knew 
Or thought that he instead of you 
Would answer first the final call, 
And rest beneath the funeral pall, 
While friends stood by with bated breath 
To mourn his sad, untimely death; 
Or dreamed that you would live to be 
A hale old man at eighty-three. 

The life strings that vibrate within, 
Are like some old time violin, 
Which as the violinist brings 
The bow across the corded strings. 
Because of years and older grown 
Gives forth a softer, sweeter tone. 
So may the Christ who died for you, 
Keep every life string tuned and true. 
That there be found no harsh discord 
Between you and the loving Lord ; 
And may your faith have grown to be 
A perfect trust at eighty-three. 



THE HIGH COST OF LIVING 

There's going up an awful howl 

About what makes our living high, 
And all the parties in the field 

Have promised fair, that they will try. 
And sift the matter through and through 

And learn the cause, and stop it when 
They get in office and have rule. 

If we will only vote for them. 
The farmer winks and says, ''By gum, 

I think I know a thing or two; 
I know why beef and pork are high 

And I will tip it off to you. 



6 



*'When everybody goes to town, 

And stick, and stay, or live or die. 
It makes things scarce upon the farm, 

And that is just the reason why 
That prices go way up in G, 

And never more come sliding down. 
Yes, that is it, all must concede, 

To many people live in town. 
And yet the farmer does not care. 

For if he has not got the help 
To make his farm, or ranch, produce. 

He can and must make prices felp. 

*'Well, if you want your living cheap. 

Just send a lot of city chaps 
Out on the farm to hoe and dig, 

And then I rather guess, perhaps, 
With an increase of corn and wheat, 

There'll be more butter, eggs and beef; 
And prices will come down a bit, 

And that will give you chaps relief. 
And still the farmer would not care, 

For he would have the more to sell. 
Though prices would not be so high. 

He would be doing just as well. 

"But if you're bound to live in town. 

And stick, and stay, or live or die, 
You never ought to kick or squeal 

When prices go a flying high; 
Just take your medicine and say. 

As the bitter pills go sliding down, 
Tm always willing for to pay. 

Because I love to live in town.' 
And still the farmer will not swear. 

But simply light his pipe and say, 
'The city man don't like the farm, 

And things are coming some my way/ 



FOR THE SIXTIETH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY 

OF DEACON O. P. CHAMBERLAIN 

AND WIFE 

With joyful hearts we've gathered here 

From farm and city home, 
To celebrate the sixtieth year 

You two have lived as one ; 
For sixty years ago today 

You took the nuptial vow, 
Which plighted then in youthful love 

Hath well been kept till now. 



Let those who say that marriage fails, 

And human love is weak. 
Remain in silence here today, 

They have no cause to speak ; 
For you are living witnesses, 

Whose very lives express 
That human love is not so frail 

And marriage is success. 

A noble husband, kind and true, 

A patient, loving wife ; 
Hand in hand have journeyed through 

A long and active life ; 
Hand in hand you have met life's storms ; 

Hand in hand its joys rept, 
Brought each other much of sunshine, 

Together sometimes wept. 

Clouds will dim the sun's bright shining, 

Winter storms dread impart. 
But as clouds have silver linings 

So sorrow tones the heart ; 
So, then, if winter never came. 

Nor clouds crossed paths of ours. 
There could be no joyous springtime, 

No refreshing showers. 



8 



God hath poured upon you blessings, 

Richer far than ophirs, gold ; 
He hath kept your spirits youthful 

While your bodies have grown old. 
So while years have chased the roses 

From time worn, faded cheek. 
They have given spirit hearty 

Through eternity to keep. 

And the blessings of your home life. 

How pleasant they have been ; 
Such a band of loving children. 

Your quiA^er full of them. 
But two fond hearts are missing here, 

Two youths of high esteem ; 
They're resting in the Saviour's love 

And need no requiem. 

Two daughters grace the family roll 

With fair, unsullied name. 
Whose conduct ever hath been chaste 

Nor caused the blush of shame. 
Three worthy sons are here today. 

And on each brow we see 
Stamped with manhood's royal seal, 

Truth and integrity. 

Still another generation, 

Grandchildren not a few, 
Ever vicing with each other 

In young, sweet love for you ; 
And a host of friends and neighbors 

Whose love and high esteem 
Lies deeper centered in their hearts 

Than ever you may dream. 

O, these are treasures none can buy 

With silver nor with gold. 
Yes, treasures worth the living for. 

The joy of being old. 



9 



For what we lose in youth and strength, 

We gain in treasured thought, 
And gather up the gifts of God 

That never can be bought. 

We humbly bow our head and pray, 

God lead you hand in hand 
For many a long and pleasant year, 

Through Beulah's blessed land ; 
Up to the eternal city, 

Whose streets are paved with gold ; 
And all are young, and blithe, and fair, 

For no one groweth old. 

THE SEVENTIETH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY 

OF DEACON O. P. CHAMBERLAIN 

AND WIFE 

(March 20, 1919) 

Ten years ago we gathered here. 

And thought it a great treat 
To celebrate your sixtieth year 

Of wedded life so sweet. 
But now our joy knows no bounds. 

Our voices rise in cheers 
As thus we come to celebrate 

Your seventy wedded years. 

How few who take the marriage vow 

Are spared so many years. 
To cheer and help each other on 

Through earthly hopes and fears. 
Estrangement, death or evil comes 

To cast the bond aside. 
By which the bridegroom has been bound 

To love and trust the bride. 

This is a world of broken homes, 
Where death hath left its mark. 

When boon companion hath succumbed 
And left a bleeding heart. 



10 



But worse than death the evil wrought 

When jealousy and strife 
Hath cast the wedding bond aside, 



Estranging man and wife. 



A solemn thought that comes to us : 

The marriage vows are naught, 
Unless there's man and womanhood 

To back the sacred thought. 
Where marriage vows are naught but words. 

What empty things they prove, 
How meaningless and powerleSB, 

What parody on love. 

But yours a life emitting rays 

That through the darkness shine. 
Proclaiming human love is great 

And marriage is divine. 
It is not love, but lust, that blights 

And makes of earth a hell, 
And drags its wretched victim down 

Beneath its evil spell. 

We look with reverence on your heads. 

By many years made white. 
And read a lesson in your lives 

That pleads for living right. 
Two human beings, passion wrought. 

As weak, perhaps, as we, 
And yet sustained by living grace 

In wedded purity. 

How sweet the picture is to us, 

As of divinest plans ; 
Four generations looking back, 

Now clasp your wrinkled hands. 
And whisper blessings on your lives 

And seek yours in return. 
As treasures youVe bequeathed to them 

Are gathered in life's urn. 



11 



May heaven's richest blessings fall 

On your declining years ; 
And precious promises divine 

Cast out all earthly fears. 
And may the Saviour gently lead 

You on o'er life's remaining shoals, 
Until eternity shall dawn 

Upon your waiting souls. 

WALT MASON 

Walt Mason is a fellow 

I'd really like to know, 
He writes so true to nature, 

And his language tickles so; 
His spicy little poems. 

So chuck full of sense and fun, 
Fills my whole heart with laughter 

Like the reading of a pun. 

That Uncle Walt's a genius 

There's no one will dare deny; 
No one can imitate him. 

Though their very best they try ; 
He has always something new, 

And he says it in a way 
That makes you laugh so hearty 

That you brush the tears away. 

Maybe some day I'll meet him, 

And will shake his old fat hand, 
And tell him he's the premier 

Of this great and blessed land ; 
For his writing's full of facts. 

And its facts that make folks see 
The emptiness of fiction 

And the truth of things that be. 

But suppose we never meet. 
He has cheered my weary heart 

With his merry little rhymes. 
As he plays his humble part; 



12 



I feel a little stronger 

Since I read his wholesome fun, 
And hope he'll keep on writing 

For a long, long time to come. 



AWAKE 

Awake, my countr3aiien, awake ; 

Our honor and freedom are at stake. 

The foe, the foe, with blood besprinkled hand, 

Is raging up and down our land. 

King Alcohol, with his vast army strong, 

Is downing ri^ht and lifting sordid wrong 

To high positions, from whence he may rule 

The courts, and make the judge and jury tool 

For his own work — to ruin lives as well, 

And hurl them down to drunkards' graves and hell, 

Awake, my countrymen, and free 

This land from rum's foul tyranny. 

Shall we, the boasted offspring of the brave. 

Ourselves and countrymen enslave? 

And bow submission to the sinful will 

Of those who rule the bar room and the still — 

Where crime in all its varied forms is bred, 

And shame and honor, oft rebuked, hath fled. 

Leaving us nothing else but to define 

Them as the nurseries of vice and crime. 



Awake, awake, ye tariff advocate, 

And strike a blow for home's sweet self and sake. 

It is the home that needs protection most — 

This tariff baby is a flimsy ghost. 

Which politicians ride to offiice on. 

Who have no sense of moral right or wrong. 

And care much less how many men may fall 

Beneath the bane of Old King Alcohol, 

Or how many drunkards, children and wives. 

At his vile shrine may sacrifice their lives. 



13 



Awake, ye voters, to a sense of duty, 

And vote against the foul, ill-gotten booty. 

Shall we, like Judas Iscariot of old. 

Kiss our Master and take the blood-stained gold? 

Shame on the man who, for old party love, 

Will call dovv^n a frown from heaven above, 

And turn hell's heartless demons loose to prey 

Upon his fellow mortals by both night and day. 

Awake, ye Christian men of spiritual birth. 

And vote as Christ would vote were He on earth. 

O Lord, stretch forth Thine holy arm and hand, 
And help us free our much beloved land, 
From rum's foul tyranny and blighting curse, 
Which lessens not, but groweth worse and worse. 
As time speeds on her rapid flight of years. 
The orphans' sobs, the widows' scalding tears. 
Flow on in one perpetual stream of woe — 
And countless numbers down to ruin go. 
Thine arm, O Lord, can stay the awful tide 
On which so many down to ruin glide. 



TO THE GOSSIPS 

Ah, tell me not, ye gossips. 

Of wrongs that others do ; 
But give to self one honest thought 

And to thyself be true. 

Then ask thyself most candidly, 
These questions very plain — 

Am I, who see all others' faults. 
Free from all sin and blame? 

Am I within the narrow way. 

Which only few have trod, 
And upright in the eyes of men, 

And just in those of God? 

And have I not, though thoughtlessly, 
Perchance, have said and done 

Something which may have pained a heart, 
Or wronged a guiltless one? 



14 



Have all my daily actions been 

Full honest, right and just; 
Or have I sometimes given way 

To selfishness and lust? 

Then ask thyself one question more, 

One more deeply seated ; 
Have I never stooped to vice, and 

Virtue basely cheated? 

Then if thy conscience does not v^ell 

Condemn thee to thy face, 
Ye must be more than mortal man, 

And full of living grace. 

O, WHAT POWER THERE IS IN A SMILE 

O, what power there in a smile 

To lighten the heart, and soothe the mind ; 
As up life's varying path we file. 

Leaving vain hopes and wishes behind ; 
Hopes and wishes, born of ambition. 

Faded and gone like flowers of Spring; 
What like a smile caii bring remission 

From disappointment's sharp burning sting. 



O, what power there is in a smile 

To drive both care and despair away ; 
O, how it bringeth new hopes the while 

It rules our hearts with absolute sway; 
Hearts that are often glommy and sad, 

Fraught with care in the battle of life. 
What like a smile maketh sad hearts glad, 

And urges us on to renew the strife. 

O, what power there is in a smile 

To plant nev/ vigor in every nerve, 
When we are tempted by sinful guile. 

Forth from the path of virtue to swerve ; 
Forth from the path of virtue and right. 

Men may be often tempted to stray, 
When the smile like a magical light* 

Guideth them back to the better way. 



15 



Then give me your smiles, friends near and dear, 

If you would keep me honest and true ; 
When my prospects in life look hard and drear, 

Nothing can help like a smile from you ; 
No tonic has such power to impart 

Strength and vigor to body and mind, 
As the smile vv^hich betokens a heart 

Overflowing- with love for mankind. 



COSEY PARLOR SONG 

Let the younger poets sing of the jolly winter time, 
When sleigh bells jingle, jingle, in a kind of merry 

chime ; 
And stars like diamonds twinkle in the vaulted blue 

above, 
A girl who sits beside you whose bright eyes are full 

of love — 
Whose laugh is like the ripple of a brook in summer 

time : 
It sets your heart to bounding and you think it 

pretty fine. 
For there's music in the bells, and there's m;usic in 

the air. 
And there's music in your heart, there is music 

everywhere. 

Chorus 

But I prefer the parlor, and the lamp light's mellow 
glow. 

The comfort of the furnace that is roaring down 
below; 

When it comes to company, though she's somewhat 
past her prime. 

There's no one quite so charming as that old sweet- 
heart of mine. 

And as we sit together on a winter's night like this. 

Seems as if we are camping on the border land of 
bliss. 



16 



You do not catch the music that is in my parlor 

rhyme, 
You much prefer the jingle of the sleigh bell's merry 

chime; 
To sit a little closer to that angel form in furs, 
And listen to the ripple of that jolly laugh of hers ; 
Wait until your hair is gray, until thirty years have 

gone, 
Then you will catch the music in my cosey parlor 

song; 
And when your pulse is weaker and the snow is on 

your brow. 
You'll catch yourself a saying just as I am saying 

now. 

After all it's not pastime, that really charms or 

cheers ; 
It's the change wrought within us by a few and 

fleeting years ; 
So as we sit together — that's my old sweetheart 

and I, 
Listening to the sleigh bells as they go a-jingling 

I envy not the youngster, with his sleigh bells and 

his belle, 
For I have indoor comforts now, that suits me quite 

as well, 
And oft as I am basking in the comfort of my home 
I catch myself a-humming in a kind of monotone. 



TO MY OLD CHUM 

I was thinking of the old days 

When you and I were young, 
When at school we sat together 

And called each other ''chum." 
Oh, those were jolly days, old friend. 

Toward which my mem'ry runs, 
And other boys were friendly too, 

But you and I were chums. 



17 



Somehow, we liked each other, chum, 

Though not at all alike, 
For you were fat and strong, chum. 

And I was slimmish like; 
My hair was like the raven's wing, 

And your a shade of brown. 
And yet we were together, chum. 

By boyish instinct drawn. 

But now we've come to man's estate. 

And walk in manhood's ways. 
It does me good to pause and think 

Of boyhood's happy days ; 
And 'mong the fondest memories 

That from those old days come. 
Is the thought of a brown haired boy, 

I used to call my chum. 

And when in after years we've reached 

And scaled life's mountain top, 
It will be comforting to know, 

That we are not forgot ; 
And when we tread the downward grade 

And face the setting sun, 
I trust you'll not forget, old friend. 

Your boyhood's chosen chum. 



IN MEMORY OF A LITTLE FRIEND OF MINE 

WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF THREE 

YEARS AND SIX MONTHS 

Ella has left her earthly home; 

She has gone to a better land; 
Her little feet no more will roam, 

O'er this world's cold crumbling sand. 

She was so bright and cheery like, 

One hardly would have thought she'd die. 

And for the heavenly land take flight, 

While brightness beamed within her eye. 



18 



I saw her just a little while 

Before her spirit took its flight; 

Upon her face there beamed a smile, 
Her eyes were keen and very bright. 

That brightness must have been the samje 
That sometimes seems to welcome death, 

When the soul from its clay domain, 

Leaps forth and speeds the fleeting breath. 

I saw her mother kind and true, 

Bend o'er the bed whereon she lay, 

Kiss her as she was wont to do, 
As she grew weaker day by day. 

I saw her kiss her father dear, 
He knew his flower was fading, 

But did not think death was so near, 
As her good-by kiss she gave him. 

She faded like the morning star 

When first the day begins to dawn ; 

Or as the sun's bright rays from far, 
Dries up the dew-drops on the lawn. 

Thus gently she was borne away 

From all this world's frail fleeting charms. 
And by the angels ''bright as day," 

Was carried to the Saviour's arms. 



THE NEW YEAR 

Take down the old calendar 

And hang up the new ; 

For now it is New Year's, 

The Old Year is through. 

Let us live in the present 

And not in the past ; 

Just now it is with us — 

It never can last, 

But will pass, like the old year, 



19 



On wings that are fleet; 
For there's nothing of time 
We mortals can keep. 
The Old Year has gone 
The New makes its bow; 
We better get busy — 
Make history now. 

OLD ROBIN 

I love to sit in the twilight, 
Twixt the daylight and the night, 
And list to old robin's song, 
Perched up in some tall tree. 
On the topmost bough you'll see. 
Standing plainly out to view 
He will warble unto you. 
In notes that are clear and strong. 

Forth from his long winter haunt, 
In some dark and leafy swamp 
He comes a prophet of spring. 
Scarce the winter winds are gone. 
Ere you hear his cheerful song; 
And he's saying in his lay 
That sweet spring is on her way, 
How we love to hear him sing. 

But you know we all have heard 
Some bad things about this bird. 
That's not boasting much for him ; 
While he is a gallant fellow, 
With a voice rich and mellow. 
It needs no affirmation, 
You know his reputation 
For strict honesty is slim. 

When his little birdies chirp. 
He will dig down in the dirt. 
Till a worm for them he's got, 
But he hangs round the garden 



20 



As if he is a warden, 
And takes the ripest berries, 
And puts the biggest cherries 
In his own rapacious crop. 

Yes, it is my firm belief. 
That Old Robin is a thief. 
Fact I know he is the chap. 
That steals my garden berries 
And swipes my biggest cherries. 
But he is blithe and cheery. 
He cheers me when I'm weary 
So I pardon him for that. 

O then may we not, in turn, 
This essential lesson learn. 
That w^e never should get blue. 
For if we're always cheerful. 
Never doubting or fearful — 
If we do sincerely try — 
Who knows but that you and I 
May be kindly pardoned, too. 

THE THINGS WE HA VENT DONE 

Some people seem to grieve a lotj 

About the things they've left undone: 

Letters they neglected to write. 

And the friendships they might have won ; . 

Kind deeds they neglected to do. 

Kind words that were left unspoken. 

Grieving over sins of omission, 

Till they are blue and heartbroken. 

I suppose we all have neglected 
A lot we would like to have done ; 
But I find that life is a hustle. 
And keeps most of us on the run. 
To eke out a decent living. 
To do things that we have to do ; 
Duties that force our attention. 
That we have to meet if we're true. 



21 



And a fellow must have a right 
For to take a breath now and then. 
In fact it's a duty we owe 
To ourselves and our fellowmen. 
There's just so much in each of us, 
So to conserve our strength is wise, 
Our trying to do the whole thing, 
Will bring us no nearer the skies. 

My doctrine is, that the fellow 
Who directs his efforts aright. 
And does every day what he can. 
And puts up a good steady fight ; 
Leaving the things that are behind, 
Pressing on to the duties ahead, 
Will have little to grieve or regret. 
When laid in God's acres of dead. 



THE PICTURE GROUP 

I look upon the picture group 
With fond, admiring gaze. 

And feel it is no sacrilege 
To sing the artist's praise. 

I would devote to him a song. 
Had I the space and time. 

And eulogize his handiwork 
In a befitting rhyme. 

And yet I think that Only Me 

Is more deserving still ; 
For he it was who led the scheme, 

And paid the artist's bill. 

'Tis true he took a silver coin 
From each and every one ; 

But I guess he's out of specie 
Now that the work is done. 



22 



The group is just as fine a lot, 

That is, excepting Joe, 
As any one could hope to find, 

No matter where they go. 

Nor would you think they'd war with words, 

So innocent their looks ; 
And yet they often wrangle o'er 

The play, the dance and books. 

But Sister Gracious rules them all. 

God bless her dear old soul 
For keeping such a cranky lot 

Under such good control. 

IN THE AUTUMN O' THE YEAR 

When the leaves are turning red, 

And the long hot days are over, 
And the silo's full o' corn, 

And the barn is full o' clover — 
And potato digging's on, 

And the husking tirnle is near, 
I kind a like the rush o' things 

In the Autumn o' the year. 

When we roll out in the morning 

Long before the rising sun. 
Ere the breaking o' the day 

Have our early chores done. 
And the griddle cakes are baking 

And the cook is full o' cheer, 
I kind a like the mornings 

In the Autumn o' the year. 

When the air is kind a crispy 

And the frost is on the grass, 
Time has ripened up the fruit 

And the promise come to pass. 
Then we gather in the fruitage 

That fills our lives with cheer. 
I kind a like the gleaning 

In the Autumn o' the year. 



23 



When the twilight shadows quicken 

And the evenings grow apace, 
And we form the family circle 

In a kind a homely grace. 
With papers, books and fancy work. 

Each the passing hours to cheer. 
I kind a like the evenings 

In the Autumn o' the year. 

The silver threads appearing 
On the heads of loving wives, 

Tells us that the years are passing 
And it's Autumn o' our lives. 

And the time of our departure 
And our gathering in is near. 

Still we hail with growing pleasure 

The Autumn o' the year. 



WHEN TEDDY MEETS A BEAR 

We're the grandest, freest nation, 

'Neath the bright and shining sun. 

We have been a revelation 

In the deeds that we have done. 

Ever since our starry banner 

To the breezes was unfurled. 

We have been a consternation 

To the kingdoms of the world. 

We've a lot of able statesmen. 

At least they average fair. 

And there's always something doing, 

When Teddy meets a bear. 

We're for peace with other nations. 

Yes, we don't want any war. 

Oh, this killing and this maiming, 

'Tis a thing we all abhor. 

Yes, but when it comes to honor. 

And our honor is at stake. 

You can bet your very life we'll fight. 

It won't be any fake, 



24 



When you hear our cannons roar, 
There'll be music in the air, 
For there's always something doing 
When Teddy meets a bear. 

We remember in our advent, 
'Twas that freedom had its birth, 
And we hold that freedom sacred 
As the dearest thing on earth. 
And if ever an oppressor 
Cares to look toward freedom's shore, 
You will see our navy moving 
And you'll hear our cannons roar. 
We've a righteous indignation. 
Toward oppression ev'rywhere, 
And there's always something doing 
When Teddy meets a bear. 

What we did at Santiago 

And at old Manila Bay, 

We will do again we promise 

If occasion comes our way. 

We will keep our navy growing 

In good vessels strong and fleet, 

Till we have the strongest navy 

That has ever ploughed the deep. 

And we'll send Old Glory waving 

Over oceans here and there, 

As a hint of what might happen 

Should Teddy meet a bear. 

CLOVER LEAVES 

I strolled across the meadow fields 
With a fair artless maiden, 

Her heart was light and free as air, 
Mine with a secret laden. 

She, laughing, challenged me to find 

A magic four-leaf clover, 
Then plucked a pair of fortune gems, 

I'd naught when search was over. 



25 



She, teasing, defty chided me 
And her merriment expressed, 

Until I opened up my heart 
And its secret there confessed. 



Now many years have rolled away 
And we two are growing old, 

And she insists that clover leaves 
Are still richer far than gold. 



I HAVE A CLEVER DOCTOR 

I never was a slacker, 

I was never known to shirk, 
But I have a clever doctor 

And he says I mustn't work ; 
So I'm just a loafing round 

On the doctor's advice. 
When I'd like to be at work 

Sawing wood or cutting ice. 

I never lacked ambition, 

I was always on the job. 
Doing just the best I could 

Like a man who totes a hod. 
When there was work to do 

I was never known to shirk. 
But I have a clever doctor 

And he says I mustn't work. 

I know that you'll believe me. 

When I tell you what I've done, 
How I've labored like a slave 

Many years, from sun to sun ; 
And I'll have your sympathy 

When I say I never shirk, 
But I have a clever doctor 

And he says I mustn't w^ork. 



26 



But in spite of my ambition, 

And desire to be doing, 
Fm really quite contented. 

And I see no use of stewing; 
Just as well to take things easy, 

Though I never was a shirk, 
I rather like my doctor, 

'Cause he says I mustn't work. 



THE MIDNIGHT RUNAWAY 

Upon the well-known Pepper Hill 
At dead of night when all was still, 
A carriage slowly moved along 
Which by a sleepy horse was drawn. 
That moved as slow and careful too. 
As Holmes' fabled horse Old Blue, 
When with his jockey on his back 
They led him limping to the track. 
Though younger by some fifteen years 
And apt to start with coltish fears. 
For in his veins was royal blood 
Descendant of a blue-grass stud ; 
His sire a horse of great renown 
Who once had worn the trotting crown ; 
For so his famous name appears. 
In sporting prints of former years. 

His dam, though not so widely known, 
Was quite a racing crack near home, 
For 'twas her owner's vaunting boast 
That she was faster than a ghost. 
And he could always safely trust 
The little mare to give her dust 
To everything that went the road 
Without the use of whip or goad ; 
Though not the kindest beast alive, 
A frisky mare unsafe to drive. 
Least, so his knowing neighbors said, 
"A nervous thing — a rattle-head" ; 
No wonder should her offspring be 
Nervous at times as well as she. 



27 



In the carriage sat Jack and Jill, 

Talking nonsense, as young folks will, 

And as the half moon's waning light 

Lent real enchantment to the night. 

Came Cupid with his fiery darts, 

Piercing their young and tender hekrts ; 

Till Jack, moving in awkward haste, 

Slipped his left arm around Jill's waist, 

Looked into her loving eyes 

And seeing there no great surprise ; 

Poor fellow, he could never miss 

Such a provocation for a kiss, 

And did not heed the little hoss. 

As he gave silken mane a toss. 

And very closely, keenly eyed 

A something strange that he had spied, 

Till every nerve was tensioned tight 

And he was almost wild with fright. 

And when he heard that 'rousing smack. 

Seemed loud to him a rifle's crack, 

With tail aloft and ears laid back, 

He made a sudden mighty spring. 

Which gave the carriage such a swing 

It took the top from off the seat, 

Tore loose a brace and made things crack, 

Knocked out two spokes and cracked a thill ; 

Then dashing headlong down the hill, 

With all the speed of frightened vim, 

As if some fiend was after him. 

Young Jack was cool and quick betimes, 

And getting both hand on the lines. 

He pulled with all his youthful might 

To stop him in his headlong flight. 

But all in vain, no hand could stay 

That nervous, hair-brained runaway. 

On, on he sped with maddened ire, 

The tires emitting sparks of fire ; 

Round went the wheels ; they faster rolled 

Than Jehu's chariot wheels of old. 

Oh, how the sand and gravel flew, 
And how the carriage rattled, too. 
And how it seemed at every dash, 



28 



The whole concern would go to smash, 

And how Jill's heart with terror filled 

And how she screamed, ''We'll both be killed," 

And how Jack braced himself and strove 

To stop the frightened brute he drove. 

And how his muscles, tough as steel, 

Sw^elled up to make that equine feel 

His master's hand was on the rein 

And he had power to check and tame 

Him in his very wildest mood — 

Chastise him, too, for being rude, 

And acting- like a plaguey fool 

When he should keep himself more cool. 

And how the horse still faster ran. 
Spurning the puny strength of man, 
As down the hill like mad he tore. 
His speed increasing more and more, 
Until it seemed he fairly flew 
Along the brush-lined avenue. 
If to his frightened sense appeared 
A hundred thousand objects weird, 
Or goblins, ghouls or phantom host, 
Or some departed equine's ghost. 
Or beasts of prey that seemed to throng 
The roadside as he sped along, 
I do not know and cannot say, 
I only know he ran away. 
In spite of all that Jack could do. 
And he a skillful horseman, too, 
Yes, ran away and at a pace 
'Twould beat the witches in a race ; 
Till all at once he tripped and fell 
Into the roadside ditch pellmell, 
Horse and carriage appalling sight. 
Piled in a heap, promiscuous like. 

There lay the horse all tangled fast, 

'Twixt tightened straps and broken shaft, 

Bruised and bleeding and a disgrace 

To all his proud ancestral race. 

There lay the carriage once strong and good, 



29 



Now but a mass of kindling wood, 
And bended irons and trimmings torn, 
A beauty of its beauty shorn ; 
With twisted ax and broken spring, 
A wreck if there be such a thing. 

There Jack and Jill, Tm sad to say. 
Among the broken debris lay : 
Poor Jill had fainted dead away. 
And Jack was feeling of his head, 
Scarce knowing whether live or dead. 
You'll scarce believe when I tell you 
How they escaped, and yet 'tis true. 
With only just a scratch or two. 
Of course, poor fainting Jill came to. 
I trust their love's more warm than ever 
Since they've been in a wreck together. 

Moral for which that yarn was spun : 
Whenever you drive a horse that's young. 
Especially if he's nervous like. 
Or it should chance to be at night, 
Use both your hands and hold him tight. 
If to horses your heart incline, 
Driving a fractious horse is fine ; 
But for making love one really should 
Drive some ''old hoss" that's kind and good. 

WHEN THE PIPES ARE FROZEN UP 

When the mercury's down to zero, 

And still is going lower, 

Till it gets down about as low 

As its ever been before ; 

And a frosty snow is sifting 

Just about as fine as dust, 

And things are snapping, and cracking 

As if they were going to bust. 

And the sun is shining through it. 

And a looking ver}^ nice. 

But it doesn't seem much hotter 



30 



Than a good big chunk of ice ; 
O, I do not mind the weather, 
Dressed in my warm winter clothes, 
But it makes me jump and holler 
When the water pipes are froze. 

Then I light a dirty lantern 

And I try to find the spot, 

And I grab my wife's teakettle 

Full of water boiling hot; 

And I pour the boiling fluid 

Where I think the thing is froze, 

And the steam comes up and blinds me 

And freezes on my nose ; 

Then I hustle for more water. 

And our folks they watch me run, 

With about a dozen questions 

On the end of every tongue ; 

And our collie wants to tussle. 

And I slap the blooming pup ; 

I don't want him bothering round 

When the pipes are frozen up. 

And when I think I've thaw^ed 'em out. 

Then I try to start the mill. 

But it won't pump a single stroke, 

'Cause the atmosphere is still ; 

And then I try the engine. 

But it isn't any use, 

'Cause we've left the switch turned on 

And have run up all the juice ; 

Then I get to fairly boiling 

In the cold and frosty air, 

And every other word I guess 

Is bordering on a swear. 

No, I do not mind the weather. 

Dressed in my warm winter clothes, 

But it makes me jump and holler 

When the water pipes are froze. 



31 



TATER-DIGGING TIME 

Early in October, when the leaves turn gold and 

red, 
At four the farmer "hollers" : ''Come, boys, roll out 

of bed. 
Get into your overalls, everybody fall in line ; 
No time for extra snoozing, it's tater-digging time." 

Give the horses hay and oats ; don't forget the 

chickens — 
Feed the pigs corn and milk, they've grown to beat 

the Dickens. 
Milk the bossies early, get all the chores done. 
We must be in the field at the rising of the sun. 

Hurry into breakfast, fill each white and waiting 

plate 
With hot and steaming 'taters and slice of ham 

that's great. 
The morning air is bracing, our appetites are fine. 
Nobody has dyspepsy in 'tater-digging time. 

Fill up the good old jug, boys, with water from 

the tank; 
It's cool and refreshing — it's the best drink ever 

drank ; 
And when our throats are parched and our strength 

begins to fail. 
We'll drink each others health in a swig of Adam's 

ale. 



Then we'll buckle in anew and lift the 'taters out, 
While the boys guy each other with hearty laugh 

and shout. 
We know it's pretty tough and we know our backs 

will ache, 
But we'll feel like pigs in clover when the mon' 

we take. 



32 



And when the rush is over and 'taters are all dug, 
We'll oil and crank the auto and bowl off to the 

club ; 
There discuss all vital questions of health, state 

and farm, 
And give the biggest prize for the biggest 'tater 

yarn. 

WHAT WAS THE CAUSE? 

It happened on an autumn night, 

When peaches were a-booming, 
I had been out among the boys. 

We all had been out cooning; 
We'd wandered from that narrow path. 

Whereof the gospel teaches, 
And stealing ofif across the fields 

Had filled ourselves with peaches. 

I happened home quite late that night. 

Or early in the morning, 
No sooner had I laid me down 

Than round my bed were swarming 
A lot of wierd and ghostly forms, 

A host of phantom creatures. 
They were all sizes, shapes and forms, 

They had all sorts of features. 

I saw all the ghosts and goblins 

Man ever sees or fancies ; 
They were performing round the room. 

The most unseemly dances. 
Oh, what are all of these, I thought; 

And what the Deuce has brought them? 
Then they all leered at me a leer 

The Devil must have taught them. 

Then there came a horrid dragon, 

A demon from the ocean ; 
And rushing in among the crowd 

He caused a great commotion. 



33 



Then around the room they all went, 

In varied circles flying; 
The dragon squat upon my breast, 

I thought that I was dying. 

How long he sat I do not know, 

'Twas endless ages seeming, 
When suddenly I 'woke to find 

I had been only dreaming. 
So, Doctor, I submit to you 

This all absorbing question. 
Was the cause rem.orse of conscience. 

Or was it indigestion? 

THE FARMER AND THE WAR 

Uncle Sam has got in trouble. 

As the world is well aware ; 
He is in up to his waistband, 

Uncle Sam's engaged in war. 
And he really needs the help 

Of every brave and loyal man. 
And Tm a true American, 

And will help him all I can. 

But Tm not much of a fighter, 

Fighting always gets my goat ; 
Oh, no, I'd always rather 

Hold some other fellow's coat. 
But our Uncle Sam is in it 

And Fm bound to do my best. 
And if I really have to fight 

I'll fight like all possessed. 

It's not a pleasant thought to me. 

Lying round among the dead; 
Or this shooting wicked bullets 

Through some other fellow's head. 
But they tell me that I can help 

Just as much to stay at home. 
Knocking around upon the farm 

Where the eatables are grown. 



34 



I will never be a slacker; 

No, Tm bound to do what's right 
But I will honestly confess 

That rd rather farm than fight. 
So I will say to Uncle Sam, 

"If it's all the same to you, 
I will stay 'at home and farm it 

'Till this wicked war is through." 

I don't care for any medals, 

For bravery or fame ; 
I'll just wear upon my shoulder 

A full sack of needed grain; 
And then when the war is over 

Oft of me it will be said, 
O, he is a mighty hero, 

For the Army he has fed. 



THE ELECTRIC AGE 

I thotight I'd write a poem 
Just to see what I could do, 

And now that it is written 
I will spin it off to you. 

It's nothing grand or lofty. 
It's only a simple rhyme. 

Written for this occasion 
To suit the present time. 

The present time's a wonder. 

And it appears to me 
Time will bring still greater things 

'Twill be a sight to see. 

The manifold inventions 

The mind of man hath wrought 

Has set the world to thinking 
And roused the men of thought. 



35 



Since Morse used the lightning 

To talk from sea to sea, 
The greatest of man's servants 

The thing has proved to be. 

The great electric current 
Has set men's hearts on fire, 

And genius lends her aid 
To lift the world up higher. 

The power of the motor 

No prophet can foretell, 
Nor guess the loads of traffic 

'Tis destined to propel. 

We see it speed the railroad car. 
We see it light the streets ; 

By it we hear the distant man 
As he of business speaks. 

And now they harness up the thing 

And hitch it to a gig, 
And travel on the country roads 

In a fine electric rig. 

I shouldn't wonder very much 
You'd live to see the hour. 

When the boys upon the farm 
Will run a motor power. • 

With lightning harnessed to the plow, 

The rural sons of toil 
Will have a revolution 

In the tilling of the soil. 

And everybody living then, 
From school boy up to sage, 

Will run a 'lectric motor. 
In that electric age. 



36 



And in those jolly, jolly days, 

I really do declare, 
I believe the girls will have 

A motor friz their hair. 

The beau will have a lightning box 
To run his sparking shay, 

And an electric lighter 
To light him on his way. 

And when he gets his darling in 
And started down the track. 

Every little while you'll hear 
A cracking 'lectric smack. 

And Cupid wielding fiery darts, 
By lightning power impelled. 

Will unite their loving hearts 
In an electric weld. 

And every baby born to them 
Will have a strong ambition 

To run an Ed'son Lighting Plant, 
Or be a great 'lectrician. 



*THE BACH'S ISLE'' 

They say there is a favored spot. 

An island far away, 
Where pretty faces are forgot 

And maidens never stray. 
It is a fine and safe retreat 

From that alluring smile 
Of the coquette, so false and sweet, 

ais called the "Bach's Isle." 

They say that on that favored spot 
There's fruit of every kind ; 

The peach, the pear, the apricot, 
And clusters on the vine ; 



37 



And yet there's none of these forbid 
Upon the ^^Bach's Isle," 

Nor snake within the grass is hid, 
Nor Eve's deluding smile. 

Then let us leave this haunted land 

And for that island sail, 
A jolly, gladsome, roving band 

That fears no ocean gale 
So much as that deluding smile 

That breaks so many hearts ; 
God bless the Bach's favored isle, 

Free from all female arts. 



STILL GAME 

I've been thinking of the old days, some fifty years 

ago, 
When I was just a boy like you, Oh, how I loved 

the snow ; 
And when the snow piled up in banks along the 

thoroughfare 
I'd flop down in the flufify stuff and leave my profile 

there. 

I used to like to catch some girl and wash her 

pretty cheeks 
Till they were red as any rose and she was mad 

for keeps ; 
Or choose up sides with other boys and have a 

snowball fight — 
We used to pack 'em good and hard and give 'em 

to 'em right. 

I used to like to grab bog sleighs and steal a dandy 

ride. 
Sometimes I had to dodge the whip to save my 

precious hide; 
But it was all within the range of life among the 

boys. 
Of course we had our little griefs, but there was 

lots of joys. 



38 



And then I used to like to skate, it was my favorite 

sport ; 
Of skating I was very fond, for skating was my 

forte ; 
And when I was upon the pond some other chap 

to beat, 
Vd cut a circle both ways round, and thought it 

was some feat. 

But I don't care for skating now, nor grabbing on 

bob sleighs. 
Snow banks do not appeal to me as they did in 

former days ; 
But I like to crank "Old Henry'' up, and hear its 

motor hum, 
I like to feel its throbbing pulse, for me its solid 

fun. 

I like to grab the steering wheel, and pull the throt- 
tle down 

And let the gears slide in on high and bowl along 
to town; 

I like to make ''Old Henry" screech, when folks 
get in the way, 

For I am still a boy at heart and driving is my play. 

Now, youngsters, don't you ever think because that 

you are young 
That you've a corner on the sports or bottled all 

the fun ; 
For some of us old chaps are game, and in the 

game to win, 
And growing better every day, like so old violin. 

And sometime maybe I will solve the mystery that 

shrouds 
The steering of an aeroplane, and sail above the 

clouds ; 
Then like some second Mother Goose, I'll sail 

among the stars. 
And cut great circles round the moon, and take a 

peep at Mars. 



39 



And when you youngsters chance to spy me sailing 

on my way, 
You'll wish you had an aeroplane, that you were 

old and gray; 
For ril be having such great fun a visiting in Mars, 
While you are still upon the earth and gazing at 

the stars. 

But, hark, I hear some youngster say, "The old 

man's lost his head, 
We'd better call the doctor in and put him off to 

bed ; 
And give him bromo-quinine pills to soothe his 

whirling brain, 
A little rest may do him good, I fear he's gone 

insane." 



THE RECEPTION 

When you're invited out to a reception 
AVhere's there's to be singing, speaking and a col- 
lection, 
And a gent is supposed to wear his blandest smile, 
And a lady to be decked out in the latest style. 
You will each and all agree, yes, and so will I, 
There's nothing quite so fitting as a good big 

chicken pie. 
The singers may sing, the parson remark, 
The poet recite till the tears fill your eye ; 
But you'll condemn the whole thing 
As a miserable farce should there chance to be a 

lack of the pie. 
For 'tis an old saying, as true as to plumb it. 
The road to a man's heart goes straight through his 

stomach. 
Would you visit the city that rules his life and 

destiny. 
Believe it, dear friends, just take it from me. 
You don't want an auto, nor a machine that can fly, 
There's no carriage so swift as a broad piece of pie. 
Upon it you'll ride with the speed of a dart, 



40 



And find yourself gliding right into his heart, 
And taking possession and holding it fast, 
So long as the pie and his appetite last. 
And when these are gone, do you ask ''What then?'' 
Oh, don't be discouraged, he'll hunger again. 
And when he gets hungry if my reasoning is true, 
You'll need no advice, you'll know what to do. 
And if he gets cross and crabbed meanwhile, 
Just talk chicken pie, and see how he'll smile. 



OUR CLUB DINNER 

Our Club sets up a dinner 

Such as few hotels can boast. 
It begins with mashed potatoes. 

And a great big juicy roast; 
And the richest, brownest gravy, 

And the lightest, nicest bread. 
Like our mothers used to make, 

All with golden butter spread. 
Salads, pickles, prunes galore 

And jam that's good to take; 
Half a dozen kinds of pie, 

And as many more of cake. 
With cofTee creamed and sugared 

Right to suit the finest taste. 

And make you want to loosen 

Every waistband to your waist. 
And when you have had your fill. 

More than plenty it would seem. 
They'll gather up the dishes 

And bring you some ice cream. 
You may vote that I'm no poet, 

You may swear that I'm a dub, 
But treat your stomach kindly 

When you're dining at the Club. 



41 



PROGRESSIVE FARMERS 

Progressive farmers, yes, we are ; 

We're keeping up with time 
And buying every patent thing 

That comes along our line. 
Our fathers used to farm it well. 

With just a drag and plow; 
We have to have a lot of tools 

To till the soil with now. 

An ox team was my father's pride 

When I was just a boy; 
A one-horse wagon and a nag 

Became an added joy. 
My father used to drive that nag 

And feed it grasses green, 
I drive a dinky little Ford 

And feed it gasoline. 

I have to have two heavy teams. 

That weigh about three ton, 
To do my little farming with 

And get the work well done ; 
They used to cut their corn and wheat 

And tie it up by hand ; 
We use a modern binder now 

That reaps to beat the band. 

And now they give us tractor talk, 

It's just the thing they say. 
To hurry up our farming with 

And make the business pay. 
And all of these we have to have 

To make a decent showing, 
And all the money we can scrape 

To keep the blamed things going. 

Our fathers used to take two pails, 
Hung thus, on either arm. 

And wend their vv^eary, v/eary way 
Around behind the barn, 



42 



To milk their long-horned, native cows 

That never tasted grain. 
And every drop of milk they got 

Was counted added gain. 

We keep a herd of high bred cows 

With hair as fine as silk ; 
We feed them silage, hay and grain 

And get a lot of milk. 
Our fathers used to crook their knees 

And hold their pails between ; 
We set the motor going now 

And milk with a machine. 

My mother held a tallow dip 

While seven prayers were said, 
But now it takes an Ed'son lamp 

To put one child to bed. 
Our parents used to ride to church 

Behind an old ox team ; 
We bowl along to meeting now 

In a modern machine. 

They worshipped in an old log church 

With woodbine overgrown ; 
We, in a stately edifice, 

Of mortar, brick and stone. 
And yet Til bet all my old clothes, 

And some I never had, 
That when it comes to pleasing God 

We ain't got much on Dad. 

SOME FUNNY DREAMS 

Once on a hot and sultry day, 

I hiked me to the shade. 
And stretched myself upon the grass, 

And loved each tender blade. 
And in my languid, lazy state 

I fell asleep, it seems. 
And while the insects hummed about 

I had- some funny dreams. 



43 



I saw a fat man crank a Ford, 

It made him wheeze and cough ; 
The effort was too much for him, 

He ripped six buttons ofif. 
And then a slim man tried his luck, 

It was a sorry twist, 
The motor kicked like a Texas steer, 

And broke his blooming wrist. 

I saw the cashier of a bank 

Go out to milk a cow. 
He met her in a pasture lot 

And made to her a bow, 
And said, "Dear Madam, do not think 

That Tm a heartless crank, 
I only want the interest on 

The note you owe the bank.'' 

I saw an old hen lay an tgg 

As large as any goose. 
I tried to stop her best I could. 

But it wasn't any use. 
Said I, ''Old hen, it is too much." 

But even as I spoke. 
She gave to me a saucy wink. 

And dropped a double yolk. 

I saw an old maid in a plane, 

Sail softly round the moon ; 
She saw the moon-man kiss the stars. 

And fell down in a swoon. 
It was to her a shocking sight, 

To see a man so old 
Perform in such a silly way. 

And act so free and bold. 

I saw gray grasshoppers as large 

As full grown kangaroos. 
They dressed in linen coats and pants 

And had on rubber shoes. 



44 



And then I saw great monstrous frogs, 

Hard by a filthy pond ; 
They said, "Old man, we'll dump you in 

Unless- you buy a bond/' 

I saw two children on the floor 

Get quarreling o'er a top ; 
Their mother quickly interfered, 

But could not make them stop. 
And then there came a harsher sound, 

As of domestic strife; 
And, lo, a bloody Irishman 

Was scrapping with his wife. 

And then I dreamed of battles fierce 

Along the line in France. 
A burly German rushed at me 

And jabbed me with his lance. 
You may be sure such dreams as these 

Disturbed my sweet repose. 
When I awoke, a bumble bee 

Was boring through my nose. 

A STORY QUAINT AND OLD 

There is a story quaint and old 
Which I have oftimes heard well told. 
My grandpa used to tell it me 
While I sat upon the old man's knee, 
Playing with his silvery beard 
And lis'ning to his stories weird. 

My grandpa, I am sad to say, 

Has been dead for many a day. 
Yet in my mem'ry he still lives, 
So does this good story of his. 

Before I tell the tale mayhap 
I'd better tell about grand-pap — 
Grand-pap was such a queer old soul, 
He used to dress so very droll. 



45 



He wore a coat with a swallow tail, 
A checkered vest with age grown pale, 
And then his odd, old fashioned hat, 
You couldn't help but laugh at that; 
It was so very strange and queer. 
He wore that hat year after year, 
I think he bought it when quite young 
'Twas such an odd, old fashioned one. 

His pants were not a stylish pair. 
At least not such as dandies wear ; 
Bought when grandpa was strong of limb. 
Therefore a half too large for him. 
For grandpa shrank day after day, 
Until I feared he'd blow away. 

When grandpa was in his prime, 
Before the wasting hand of time 
Had whitened the locks of his hair. 
He was fat, and rosy, and fair. 
But time moved on, day after day, 
And turned my grandpa's brown hair gray. 
Then day by day, and night by night. 
The gray was bleached to snowy white. 
He took to walking with a staff. 
And a crack in the old man's laugh 
A true and timely warning gave 
That he was traveling to the grave. 

He grew so very pale and thin 
One couldn't help but pity him, 
And then he had a hacking cough, 
I think 'twas that that took him off; 
And many were the tears I shed 
When I learned that grandpa was dead. 

But the story, so quaint and queer. 
Which you all expect to hear, 
Is a story weird and ghostly. 
Made of fiction, I think, mostly. 



46 



'Tis such a frightful tale, ah, me, 
I am afraid 'twill frighten thee ; 
Arid, but, well, Tm surprised to find, 
It has completely slipped my mind. 

HOW THE WATCHWORD CHANGED 

The sun had been some hours down 
And all was quiet in the town. 
Their footsteps scarce produced a sound 
As they met on the hillside brown. 
And passed this watchword quickly round. 
Melons, boys, melons. 

They chose a captain for to lead 
Them in their dark and silent deed; 
Then down the lane and cross the mead, 
Just like so many demons freed, 
Whispering only as agreed. 
Melons, boys, melons. 

Into the deacon's patch they went, 
Not even asking his consent. 
Or ever expecting to pay a cent, 
The ''devir' a helping hand had lent, 
And thus the boys on mischief bent, 
Melons, boys, melons. 

Then in among the vines they pressed. 
Each one searching for the best, 
Cooning melons is not a theft, 
Guess the deacon may have the rest, 
Chuckled the larkins as they left, 
Melons, boys, melons. 

Then hurried to the shadows where, 
They waited not for grace or prayer, 
But each one whirled his knife in air 
And clove the fruit so wondrous fair, 
Then groaned in wild, unfeigned despair, 
Citrons, boys, citrons. 



47 



A WORD TO GERMANY 

We're a quiet peaceful nation, 

We never courted war, 
Oh, the killing, and the maiming 

Our very soujs abhor; 
We'd rather yield a point or two 

At any time than fight. 
But when our toes you tread upon, 

We'll stand for what is right. 

We have a right upon the seas. 

That right we will maintain. 
And we'll take Old Glory waving 

On proudly o'er the main; 
And woe to him who dares to say, 

''We'll fix your bounds for you. 
Beyond this line you must not take 

Your proud red, white and blue." 

Beware : hands off, you cannot stop 

The eagle in its flight, 
His pinions falter not by day. 

They tire not by night. 
In all his course he wavers not. 

Through storm and burning sun. 
The king of birds moves on his way 

Until the goal is won. 

Our merchantmen have lawful rights 

Upon the great high seas ; 
And who art thou that would forbid 

Our exercising these. 
We've got the men with hearts of steel, 

We've got the sea machines. 
We'll meet you on the briny deep. 

And crush your submarines. 

Oh, do not think that 3^ou have all 

The terrors of the sea ; 
For Yankee pluck, and Yankee skill 

Can well compete with thee. 



48 



We've money, men and means of war, 
An endless source of food ; 

You better think before you tread 
Where the Eagle guards his brood. 



THE FARMERS' RESPONSE TO PRESIDENT 
WILSON'S CALL 

We are plowing, Father Wilson, the seed will soon 

be sown ; 
We'll have the largest acreage that ever yet was 

known. 
We're bound to fill the granaries, v/e'll scarcely stop 

for sleep 
Till the elevators bulge with a bumper crop of 

wheat ! 

The Army and the Navy shall have no hunger 

dreams, 
If they will do the fighting, wx wall furnish pork 

and beans. 
And w^e'll do it not for glory, we'll do it not for 

greed, 
Because we love our country and realize her need. 



We'll load the ocean freighters, for the people o'er 

the sea, 
And feed the allied armies till the nations all are 

free; 
And the Kaiser and his armies shall pray for terms 

of peace, 
And old Belgium's resurrected and the w^orld wade 

w^ar shall cease. 

Then pray the Lord of harvest for the sunshine and 

the rain, 
And the finest kind of wxather to ripen up the grain ; 
For except the Lord shall help us, 'tis no use to plow 

and sow, 
Man can do a lot of seeding, but the Lord must 

make it grow\ 



49 



THE LIBERTY HARVEST FOR 1919 

Last year we heeded Wilson's call 

And sowed the golden grain, 
And pled with Him who rules above 

To give us sun and rain, 
And temper well the w^intry blasts 

That swept our snow clad fields, 
Protecting well the tender plants, 

And giving ample yields. 

God looked with gracious favor down 

Upon the planted seed. 
The harvest came in ample form 

Supplying every need. 
With thankful hearts we've gathered in 

The product of the field. 
So great a crop was never known 

In acreage or yield. 

And now again we're called upon 

Emergencies to meet, 
To sew an increased acreage 

For 1919 wheat. 
And in response we speed the plow, 

Rejoicing in the chance 
To back the boys now fighting on 

The line "Somewhere in France." 

And as we pierce the willing soil 

With plow share's gleaming prong, 
We mingle with our laboring 

A note of Freedom's Song. 
And all of this that men may know 

That God rules o'er the earth. 
And Liberty's a sacred thing 

Of most intrinsic worth. 



HURRAH FOR THE NAVY 

Hurrah for our navy, so staunch and so true. 
They are turning the trick that we asked them to, 
They are sinking the U-boats down in the deep 



50 



And leaving them there in their last deep sleep, 
And making themselves a glorious name 
That will live for ages in the halls of fame. 

Hurrah for our brave boys so plucky and game, 
Who pick the U-boats with their unerring aim, 
Causing the undersea raiders to feel 
The force of American powder and steel. 
Amazing the world v/ith their wonderful skill 
And thwarting the plans of old Kaiser Bill. 

A dirge for the boys so nobly brave, 

Whose blood has mixed with the ocean's wave, 

Dying as only brave men could, 

Their lives going out for the whole world's good. 

Heroic souls that knew no fear. 

We'll drop for them the silent tear. 



PARODY ON THE WATCH BY THE RHINE 

A cry is heard like thunder sound. 
With roar of guns the woods resound ; 
As cross the Franco-Prussian line 
The Yankees swarm on toward the Rhine. 

Chorus 
O Germany, no peace is thine, 
O Germany, no peace is thine ; 
So don't you worry, Fritzy mine, Fritzy mine. 
For we'll hold fast the watch, the watch by the 
Rhine. 

The whole world joins to raise the cry, 
The very heavens make reply, 
''The beast, who Belgium's fields laid bare, 
Mvist now be driven to his lair." 

Your God your very prayers deny. 
Nor answers back approvingly, 
And still you rushed like mad to war, 
Used all the means the gods abhor. 



51 



While in my veins the red drops flow, 
While arm of mine can strike a blow, 
Or rifle sure is in my hand, 
No Autocrat shall walk thy strand. 

Your oaths were vain, the stream runs red ; 
Your banners fall among the dead. 
Back from the Rhine, your game is lost, 
And O, at what a fearful cost. 



THE CITY AND COUNTRY FARMERS 

A cheer for the city farmer, 
And the things that he says he'll do 
Right along the line of farming 
For to help the President through. 
What a pleasing sight it will be 
As we walk down the winding lane, 
To see his parks, and his golf grounds 
Covered with waving golden grain. 
But my thoughts turn to the farmer 
Who for the past forty long years 
Has furnished bread for the city 
While he mixed his toil with his tears. 

They are great men in the city. 

They are up at the very top, 

But their farms out in the country 

Were bought with the toll of the shop. 

We haven't a word as a critic. 

We trust they have come for to stay, 

And we're w^illing to learn a bit 

If they'll show us a better way; 

But ril tell you right now, my friends, 

My hat I am going to doff. 

To the Old Farmer who fed us 

While paying the mortgage off. 

Maybe they will show us the way, 
They most certainly have means, 
Very seldom they lack for men. 



52 



And never have a lack of teams. 
But remember the man who's lived 
All of his life long on the land, 
Knows a thing or two about nature, 
And he works with a skillful hand ; 
So cheer for the country farmer — 
Who's still holding on to his job, 
And standing by the President 
As right deftly he turns the sod. 

OUR MARINES AT CHATEAU THIERRY 

All night across the River Marne 

The German army poured ; 
Bavarians, Saxons, Prussians, 

An overwhelming horde. 
Next morn our brave Americans, 

Outnumbered six to one. 
Slowly, stubbornly resisting, 

Fell back before the Hun. 

The kaiser planned to drive the wedge 

Where there w^as least to block. 
"Those untried Yankee troops,'' he said, 

''Can never stand the shock. 
And once the line is broken through. 

Sure victory it means. 
The road, w^e'll open all the way 

To Paris and Orleans." 

Bravely the weakening line fought on 

While Foch advised retreat; 
Those brave, determined Yankee boys 

Could never bear defeat. 
And so they fought, and bled, and died, 

Beneath a fire of hell; 
But for every Yankee that went down, 

A dozen German fell. 

And then our bold Marines came up. 

Chafing to meet the foe, 
And launched a whirlwind cotmter drive, 

An unsuspected blow. • 



5 



Q 



Eight thousand husky Yankee boys ; 

A sea of human force, 
Threw themselves against the Hun 

And stopped him in his course. 

And with proverbial Yankee rush, 

They swept his column back. 
While heaps of dead and wounded lay 

To mark their onward track. 
Those gallant soldiers of the sea, 

Our expert rifle-men, 
Rushed like so many hungry wolves, 

There was no stopping them. 

On, on across the Marne they pushed 

With ball and bayonet thrust ; 
And every time a rifle cracked 

A German bit the dust. 
Nor did they slacken in their pace 

Until they reached the hill. 
On which old Chateau Thierry stood 

To mock their pride and skill. 

Flat in the mud they threw themselves, 

And scarcely raised a head, 
While the German machine guns. 

Swept all the slope with lead. 
Hundreds of them were shot and fell. 

While their comrades passed by 
With the one determined thought. 

To take the town, or die. 

It was a most unequal strife. 

In vantage ground and men ; 
And yet our bold marines fought on, 

Odds counted not wath them. 
'Tt was a fight," as Greeks vv^ould say, 

''To awe the very gods." 
How could they ever hope to v/in 

Against such fearful odds? 



54 



And yet they crawled on up the hill 

Without a seeming doubt 
That they would take the citadel, 

And put the Huns to rout. 
And now a few have reached a shed, 

And skulk along its side. 
And swearing through their hard-set teeth 

Revenge for those who died. 

Men w^ho could hit the big bull's-eye 

At seven hundred yards, 
Now gloating o'er a chance to pay 

To them their last regards ; 
And woe to him who dared to peer 

Above a Mauser gun. 
A dozen messengers of death 

Would center there as one. 

And now they fairly throng the town. 

And with unerring aim. 
They bring the German gunners down, 

And strew the streets with slain, 
Until the cowed and beaten Huns, 

A panic stricken host, 
Flee as so many children might, 

Before a fancied ghost. 

And now historians record 

This on the great war page, 
''One of the greatest victories 

Of this or any age." 
And our posterity will read 

With pardonable pride. 
How gallantly they fought and won. 

How" fearlessly they died. 

WHEN OUR BOYS COME MARCHING HOME 

When our boys come marching home 

They'll be surprised to know 
That while they whipped the Kaiser, 

We've beat a greater foe. 



55 



They fought for world democracy, 

And freedom of the sea, 
WeVe routed Old King Alcohol, 

And set his subjects free. 

When our boys come marching home 

We'll grasp them by the hand, 
And say, ''We gladly welcome you 

Back to your native land ; 
We're proud of you and what 3^ou did 

Way over there in France, 
No braver knights in days of old 

E'er wielded sword or lance." 

The Kaiser had ambitions 

To rule the world they say ; 
For centuries King Alcohol 

Has held unbounded sway. 
The Kaiser's victims number 

Some millions more or less, 
While those of Old King Alcohol 

No number can express. 

You sailed across the ocean wide, 

And risked your all to save 
The world from German tyranny. 

And dig its lasting grave. 
How well you did your duty there 

The records plainly show, 
The Allies all are praising you 

For helping whip the foe. 

But while you fought across the sea 

A light was breaking here. 
That swept across the continent 

Where progress knows no fear. 
xA.nd now Old Glory proudly waves 

Where prohibition leads, 
And righteousness stands far above 

All other earthly creeds. 



56 



A PLEA FOR THE FARMERS EXEMPTION 
FROM DRAFT 

We have kept our promise, Wilson, 

We have ploughed the fertile soil, 
We have planted high priced seed 

And the harvest crowns our toil. 
We are filling up the store rooms. 

With the things that people eat, 
And this Fall will sow the seed 

For that bumper crop of wheat. 

We promised that the army 

And our gallant navy, too. 
Should have no hungry dreams 

And we'll keep that promise true. 
If you will let us keep our boys 

To assist us in the work, 
They are skilled in lines of farming 

And are not inclined to shirk. 



Now for years the farm's responded 

To the city's urgent call. 
And the factory's shorter hours, 

And its higher wage Vv^ith all. 
Till the farm help is depleted 

By the city's great demand 
Till there isn't farmers left enough 

To till the waiting land. 

If food means anything in war, 

And the army must be fed. 
And our home folks and ovir Allies 

Have their necessary bread. 
It seems like suicide to draft - 

Our agricultural sons, 
For the farmers are the fellows 

That must stand behind the gun. 



57 



THE FARMER'S PART 

The importance of the farmer 
Presses upon the public mind, 
War is waking up the people 
To some solid facts I find — 
War is not all blood and thunder, 
Steel and shell, and clash of arms, 
Every hero in the trenches 
Needs a dozen on the farms. 

Back of all this desperate struggle 
Stands the man who tills the soil, 
If he fails to do his duty 
Or to wisely shape his toil. 
Bringing out of Natvire's store room 
Bread and meat for trench and home 
We will lose the greatest conflict 
That the world has ever known. 

''Build a bridge,'' says General Pershing, 
''Build a bridge to us of ships. 
Rush the line of transportation 
To our men within the pits." 
And we feel the call is urgent. 
Ships we need — need them plenty. 
But what good are ships and ships, 
If the ships go sailing empty. 

Back of all this Allied efifort 
Stands the farmer, tanned and grim. 
Brave, determined, realizing 
That results depend on him. 
Can we trust him, will he do it? 
Harbor not a single doubt. 
Victory's waiting in the soil 
And the farmer'll bring it out. 

Give him just an equal showing 
With the men at forge and bench. 
And you'll find him just as willing 
As the men within the trench ; 



58 



Sacrificing, scrimping, saving. 
Willing Hoover fare to eat. 
That the ships that bridge the ocean 
May be filled v^ith best of wheat. 

Yes, his sons he too is giving, 
Sons he loves and needs at home, 
Yet he gives no sign of shrinking. 
He w^ill meet the task alone, 
And with all his strength and skill 
Make the old farm yield its share. 
For his interests now are centered 
In the boys that's ''Over There.'' 



IT'S UP TO THE NAVY 

The farmers are busy, they are on the right track, 
With just a few slackers that are still hanging back, 
They are plow^ing, and sowing with a right good 

will, 
You can trust these yeomen, the granaries to fill. 
That they are onto their job there isn't any doubt, 
But it's up to the navy to knock the U-boats out. 

Yes, the farmers are true, they're bound to do their 

part, 
The cause of the Allies lies close to their heart; 
Old England is hungry and she must be fed 
Or the cause is lost for which her sons have bled. 
But what's the use of toiling to grow corn and wheat 
If the U-boats sink it in the bottom of the deep? 

There isn't much use of the farmer raising grain 
To have it dumped in the bottom of the main ; 
So it's up to the navy to turn the handsome trick 
Of knocking out the U-boats, and doing it quick. 
To stop the awful toll that the U-boats take 
From the tonnage of the sea ere it is too late. 

We believe in our navy, believe in its skill ; 

We ask them to do it, and we trust that they will. 

Their record in the past shines like gold on the page, 



59 



And we trust they are keeping abreast of the age. 
But we'll never sing the praise of our great war 

fleet, 
Till they nail the U-boats to the bottom of the deep. 

IF IT WASNT TAX TIME 

Early on a Christmas morning, 

Not so many years ago, 
When the wind was blowing chilly 

And the fields w^ere clad in snow, 
I awoke from pleasant dreaming 

To hear my wifey say, 
''Merry Christmas ; wake up, hubbie, 

Don't you know it's Christmas day?" 

"Yes," I said, "I know it's Christmas, 

And I think you're mighty fine, 
I w^ould buy you some new furs 

If it wasn't tax time." 
Now you know I can read my wife 

Just as you can read a book, 
And I saw in her blue eyes 

A disappointed look. 

And its kind of irritating 

When your wife looks at you 
Through a mist of disappointment 

And you know she's feeling blue; 
And so I tried hard to explain, 

As my hand on hers I laid, 
That our taxes were enormous 

And our taxes must be paid. 

Then our little girl came stealing 

Very softly down the stairs. 
Just as softly as she could 

So's to catch us unawares. 
And the stair door opened slightly, 

Just enough for peaking through. 
And her childish voice came ringing, 

"Merry Christmas, both of you." 



60 



Oh, it gave my half-woke senses 

Such a very pleasant stir, 
For she looks so like her mother 

And I am so proud of her ; 
And I said, ''My little lady, 

Papa thinks you're mighty fine, 
He would buy you a big dollie 

If it wasn't tax time. 

Then I saw my words had hurt her, 

Had hurt her childish heart. 
For she hung her little head 

And I saw the teardrops start. 
Then our boy he came a-rushing. 

Just as boys are apt to do. 
And a-shouting like a trojan, 

''Merry Christmas, all of you.'' 

And I couldn't help remarking 

How the little tyke had grown, 
And its nice to have some children 

To enliven up one's home. 
And I said, "My little man, 

You are growing up so fine, 
I would buy you some new skates. 

If it wasn't tax time. 

Well, he showed his disappointment 

By rushing from the room, 
Running against a chair or two 

And knocking down the broom ; 
As he slammed the door behind him 

I heard the rascal say, 
"Let the taxes go to Ginnea, 

Buy 'em for me anyway." 

Well, it kind o' set me thinking, 

A thinking to be sure, 
That a man who pays taxes 

Can't be so very poor; 



6i 



What's the use of squeezing pennies 

At Christmas anyhow ; 
You'll never know the difference 

In a hundred years from now. 

I wan't to tell you fathers, 

That it isn't any use, 
We can't make paying taxes 

An acceptable excuse. 
I have come to the conclusion 

That the proper thing to do, 
Is to buy some likely presents 

And pay the taxes, too. 

THE MAN WHO TOOK MY PLACE 

Tonight my thoughts go back 

To ancient Bethlehem, 
Where Jesus Christ, the Son. of God, 

Came down to dwell with men. 
Born in a manger plain and rude, 

A child of humble birth ; 
For so it pleased the Father, God, 

That He should come to earth. 

And as the faithful shepherds watched 

Their timid flocks by night. 
The angel of the Lord appeared 

'Mid rays of glorious light ; 
Proclaiming, ''Unto earth is born 

A Saviour and a King, 
Whom you will find in swaddling clothes 

Where men their cattle bring. 

And suddenly a multitude 

O'f angels from above. 
Joined in a heavenly anthem 

That praised divinest love. 
'Traise God," the burden of their song, 

''Peace on earth, toward men good will," 
Then the heavenly host departed 

And the night was calm and still. 



62 



And then the shepherds came in haste, 

And as the angels said. 
They found the child in swaddling clothes, 

A manger for His bed. 
And they, returning to their flocks. 

Took up the song of praise, 
While all the people listened 

In wonder and amaze. 

And still my thoughts go on tonight; 

The humble child I see 
Has grown to be a perfect man, 

The man of Galilee. 
A mild and tender-hearted man, 

A man of marvelous might, 
Who healed and taught the folks by day, 

And often prayed by night. 

A man of sorrow and of grief, 

Whose own received Him not, 
But fainting souls who did believe, 

He never once forgot. 
The halt, the blind, the deaf, respond, 

The palsied rise and walk, 
While demons flee before His word, 

The dumb are made to talk. 

And at His biddine, mourners pause 

And halt the passins: bier, 
Beholding- in their wonderment 

The Man that draweth near. 
He spake the w^ords, ''Young man, arise." 

He wakes as if from sleep, 
And while the mourners stood amazed, 

The man begins to speak. 

And still His enemies increase 

In numbers and in power, 
Until they meet on Calvary, 

In time's most crucial hour. 



63 



And there they nail him to the cross, 
While priests and scribes deride, 

And cruel soldiers buffet Him, 
And pierce His tender side. 

And I in faith now looking back 

O'er ninteen hundred years 
Own in the man they crucified 

Rests all my hopes and fears. 
For He was God's annointed one, 

The power of His grace. 
And I beholding on the cross, 

The man w^ho took my place. 

THE CHRISTIAN'S CONSOLATION 

The Prince of Peace has come to me 

And spoken of His lov^e, 
The Holy Spirit's breathed on me 

An unction from above ! 
So now my life is hid in Christ 

And this great truth I feel 
That I have treasures up above 

That thieves can never steal. 

What consolation 'tis to know 

That one has been redeemed — 
Born of the Spirit, made anew. 

That Christ has intervened. 
And with His own all cleansing blood 

Poured out on Calvary, 
Has satisfied the law in full 

And set the sinner free. 

I'll rise, shake off the bonds that bind 

Me to the worldly throng, 
And sing of Him who set me free 

Some soul inspiring song; 
ril tell the story of His love, 

And loud His praises sing. 
To let the whole world know that I 

Own Jesus as my King. 



64 



I humbly pray for grace to live 

So that the world may see. 
That I have walked, and supped, with Him, 

And He has quickened me ; 
And when the summons comes to go 

Stripped of all human pride, 
I trust with Him who guides me now 

To cross the Great Divide. 

And over on the other shore 

ril join the blood washed throng, 
From every tribe and nation saved 

To sing salvation's song; 
And to drink the living waters 

Proceeding from the throne, 
Where pain and death can never come 

And sorrow is unknown. 



THE TOUCH OF FAITH 
(Mark 5:25, 34) 

'Twas over in Capernaum 
Of Galilee you know, 

Where Jesus sought, 

And kindly taught 
The people long ago. 

He healed the sick, the halt, the blind, 
That cam.e from hour to hour ; 

He raised the dead 

While demons fled. 
Before His mighty power. 

A woman with a flow of blood 
Had truly spent her all, 

No doctor yet 

That she had met 
Could give relief at all. 

She heard that Jesus Christ was there. 
She heard, believed, and then 

Among the rest 

Most anxious pressed. 
And touched His garment's hem. 



65 



Like magic from His person flowed 
A stream of healing power ; 

And she perceived 

That her disease 
Was healed the self same hour. 

"Who toucheth Me?'' asked the Lord, 
"Peter, who toucheth Me?" 

"Why, see the throng 

That press along 
And ask them who toucheth Thee/' 

"Somebody touched Me well I know, 
Some one relief hath sought ; 

For virtue true, 

My mission due, 
A miracle hath wrought. 

Then she confessed her faith so great. 
Her joy beyond control ; 

His heart was stirred. 

He spake the v/ord, 
"Thy faith hath made thee whole." 

Then may not we, though weak as she. 
While wasted past we rue. 

In faith extend 

An anxious hand 
And touch His garment, too. 



A WORD FITLY SPOKEN IS LIKE APPLES OF 
GOLD IN PICTURES OF SILVER 

(Proverbs 25:11) 

Like apples of gold in pictures of silver. 

Oh, how attractive are words fitly spoken ; 

How they touch the cold heart that naught else can 

move, 
Nothing's so touching as words fitly spoken. 



66 



Like apples of gold in pictures of silver, 

O'h, how valuable are words fitly spoken ; 

The wealth of the land — the wealth of the ocean. 

Are nothing compared to words fitly spoken. 

Like apples of gold in pictures of silver, 
Oh, how long lasting are words fitly spoken ; 
Marble will crumble 'neath time's wasting fingers, 
But words never die that are fitly spoken. 

Like apples of gold in pictures of silver. 

Oh, how soul-stirring are words fitly spoken; 

The seeds of salvation and life eternal 

Are made up of words that are fitly spoken. 

Like apples of gold in pictures of silver. 
Oh, gfant that our words be all fitly spoken; 
Attractive, valuable, lasting forever. 
Stirring souls now dead, by words fitly spoken. 

Like apples of gold in pictures of silver. 
Oh, thus will it be with words fitly spoken ; 
And some day their echo will sweetly return, 
And we shall rejoice for words fitly spoken. 



SUNDAY 

This is the day our Saviour 'rose. 
And burst the confines of the tomb. 
Came forth the first fruits of the dead, 
And robbed the grave of half its gloom. 

Ah ! well may we in reverence bow, 
Before the Lord of Lords this day 
And worship Him who hath the power 
To resurrect the lifeless clay. 

The wages of our sin is death ; 
We all have sinned and all must die, 
And have no hope except in Him, 
Who robbed the grave of victory. 



67 



But bless the Lord, I know if we 
Have faith in Him who come to save. 
Like Him we, too, shall rise again, 
And burst the confines of the grave. 

O blessed hope of the redeemed, 
O blessed hope in Christ, our Lord — • 
God give us faith that wavers not. 
Faith in our Master and His word. 

That we like Him may rise again. 

All cleansed from every spot and stain. 

By the all purifying blood 

Of Him for our transgressions slain. 

Then hail thou day of worshiping, 
Thou day of all the week the best. 
Come sing and pray ye ransomed ones, 
Come, sinners, and in Christ find rest. 

Come, throng the temple of our Lord, 
''The spirit and the bride say come/' 
Come, all who thirst for righteousness, 
And let the Master guide thee home. 



HOW OLD SANTA GLAUS LOOKS 

Well, boys, I have seen old Santa Claus, 
And can tell you how he looks ; 

You can't tell much by the pictures 
You see in the Christmas books. 

Because the old fellow changes 

Every time you look at him ; 
At first he is fat and rosey. 

And then he is tall and slim. 

Next, he is a great big fellow. 

And then he's a little chap ; 
And sometimes he wears a derby. 

And again he wears a cap. 



68 



Sometimes he wears long whiskers, 
Sometimes he is shaven clean, 

With a nose as sharp as a pick. 
And a chin that's easily seen. 

Sometimes he is young and active, 
Sometimes he is old and slow ; 

Besides he's not always a man — 
Oft' he's a woman, you know. 

Sometimes he looks like your father; 

Sometimes in your mother's guise. 
He's hustling around to give you 

A regular old surprise. 

Sometimes he looks like your sister 
With her red and dimpled cheeks, 
And its then he laughs and giggles 
At near every one he meets. 

But the laughing and the giggling 

Doesn't ruffle you nor 1, 
For we know its only sister, 

And she's good as apple pie. 

Sometimes he looks like your brother. 

Who is only just a boy, 
Trying his best to bring someone 

A bushel of Christmas joy. 

He's just as much a Santa Claus 

As a public rated man 
Giving presents to the needy 

On a systematic plan. 

Sometimes he looks like Aunt Mari, 

Sometimes like Uncle Joe, 
But always the finest fellow 

That ever I chanced to know. 

His heart's as big as a pumkin, 
His purse as long as a lane. 

And I don't care how he's looking, 
I'm liking him just the same. 



69 



WHERE SANTA CLAUS DWELLS 

Santa Claus lives in a beautiful dell 

Where Christmas trees grow and Fairy folks dwell, 

And the wild flowers bloom all summer long, 

And birds lend enchantment in sweetest song, 

And fruit grows in clusters on vine and tree 

And Santa's as rich as rich can be. 

He owns a great farm and lives like a peer. 

You never could count his herd of reindeer. 

Some say that he owns a flying machine, 

Maybe that's so but it's never been seen. 

But Santa don't like the warm summer time, 

He lives in the shade of a great swaying pine, 

And longs for Jack Frost and snowdrifts again. 

He likes the snow so much better than rain. 

And when the snow comes softly down at night 

And covers his home in mantle of white, 

He w^histles and sings and shouts with glee, 

"Oh, this is the season I love," says he. 

''I love it," says he, ''I think it is fine, 

I love it because it's Holiday time. 

Of all the glad days I think Christmas best." 

He combs his whiskers and smooths down his vest. 

''I think," says he, ''it's great to be living, 

I find such pleasure in simpl}^ giving. 

I pity the chap who does not believe 

It's more blessed to give than 'tis to receive." 



CHRISTMAS CAROL 

The earth is cold and drear tonight, 

The wind goes moaning through the trees, 

While summer birds have winged their flight 
To greener fields and warmer seas. 

'Ere long the Christmas bells will chime 
An anthem full of joy and mirth. 

In memory of that blessed time 

When Jesus Christ was born on earth. 



70 



Moan on ye night winds if ye will, 
Yea, mourn for the departing year, 

But let the troubled heart be still. 
And Christmas be a day of cheer. 

What care we for the winds without, 
What care we for the frozen earth, 

While Christmas bells are ringing out 
To celebrate the Saviour's birth. 

To celebrate the birth of Him, 

''Of wedded maid'' and virgin born, 

Who made atonement for our sin ; 
O, hallowed be the Christmas morn. 

May none forget the Christmas day, 
When God, His only Son did give. 

And He assumed to mortal clay. 
So that a dying world may live. 

Now, may w^e learn from this great gift 
Bestowed by God, from heaven above, 

Our selfish hearts and minds to lift 
To deeds of charity and love. 

O, may w^e work for others' good, 
And not a vile ambition feed, 

While there are those who want for food, 
And weary, weary hearts that bleed. 

We may not be in reach of such 

As justly might our alms demand. 

But thousands need the balmy touch 
Of a warm and generous hand. 

A pleasant smile, or word of cheer. 
Will always outweigh loads of gold. 

In banishing dread, doubt and fear 

And making w^eak ones strong and bold. 

Now we can give as much as this, 
No matter what our lot in life. 

So let us each and all dismiss 

Our love of worldly din and strife. 



71 



And while Christmas bells are telling 
Of the bright star of Bethlehem, 

May our inmost hearts be swelling 

For 'Teace on earth, good will toward men/' 

RESCUE OF SANTA GLAUS 

Well, my^'young friends, many changes have come 
Since the draggy old days when I was young ; 
Well I remember my father's ox team — 
Few speedy horses in those days were seen, 
Never an auto or flying machine. 
Yet Santa Claus drove, so old people said, 
Sixty fleet reindeer; all hitched to a sled, 
Loaded with candies and goodies and toys, 
Which he scattered 'round 'mong good girls and 
boys. 

Slim as a bean-pole and quick as a mouse, 
He'd slide down the chimney, right into the house ; 
Distribute the presents, then, like a flash, 
Back up the chimney — away he would dash. 
From Christmas to Christmas he'd naught to do. 
So he grew lazy and fat, wouldn't you? 
'Tis an old saying, a truth, Fve found, 
''A man'll get lazy just lying around." 

That night before Christmas he loaded his sled, 
Hitched up his reindeer and away he sped ; 
For he knew that thousands of girls and boys 
Would be expecting the candy and toys. 

The first house he came to he stopped his sleigh, 
Ran up on the roof in his old-fashioned way ; 
Never once thinking but w^hat he could drop 
Right down through the chimney just like a top. 
As he mounted the chimney and stuck his feet in, 
The truth flashed upon him, he was no longer slim. 

To get in the chimney up to his knees, 
Santa Claus found it a pretty tough squeeze ; 



72 



But time was passing and he must make haste, 
So he squeezed himself in clear up to his waist. 
And then : I wasn't there, but they say that it's true, 
Old Santa Clans got himself stuck in the flue. 
He couldn't climb up, nor he couldn't slide down. 
An awful predicament. Til be bound. 

The more he struggled the tighter he got. 

And the smoke in the chimney was scorching hot; 

Still he struggled on between hope and doubt. 

Fearing each moment the chimney'd burn out. 

Tired at last, he said, 'Tt's no use to try. 

All I can do is to stick here and die." 

Now, he'd never learned to sputter or swear, 

So he hung his head in utter despair. 

Old Mother Goose was out riding her broom. 

And seeing Santa Claus waiting his doom. 

She took a quick turn — came down through the air, 

And grabbing both hands right in his long hair, 

She gave her broom a peculiar flop 

And flipped him right out of the chimney's top. 

And gently down on the roof let him drop ; 

And before he had time to say thank you 

Off through the night like a spectre she flew; 

Way up from the earth, way off beyond Mars, 

To race w^ith the comet and shooting stars. 

As Santa Claus dug the soot from his eyes. 

He sat on the roof and soliloquized : 

*'One thing certain, you can put it down that 

For sliding down chimneys Fm much too fat ; 

Fll go to some wizard and get a key 

T'will open all doors in the land to me. 

And after this, when Fm running about, 

Sliding down chimneys Fll surely cut out." 

Then he slid from the roof, climbed in his sleigh, 

Gave his reindeer the word and sped swiftly away. 

Now^ Santa is fat, an up-to-date man — • 

Rides in an auto whenever he can. 

And some people say that he has been seen 



73 



Paying some cash for a flying machine. 

But whether he comes in an auto or sleigh, 

Or scoots through the air in some new-fangled way, 

He'll surely come down the chimney no more, 

But let himself in the dining-room door. 

And in his fur slippers, as still as a mouse, 

Will take a peep at each child in the house 

Just to see if he has quite rightly guessed 

What kind of presents will suit him the best. 

And when he is gone, if you take a look 
You'll most always find a Mother Goose Book, 
For Santa would honor the eccentric dame, 
Who to his rescue that awful night came. 
And gave to her broom that peculiar flop 
That flipped him right out of the chimne}^ top ; 
For had she not come, he believes, on his soul, 
He''d be dry as a mummy and black as a coal. 
And all you dear children see that it's true. 
He'd still be sticking up there in the flue. 



THE KIND OF MAN I'D HAVE HIM BE 

I have a boy, a little boy. 

As bright as bright can be; 
He's growing up to be a man. 

Who knows how much like me ; 
He has his mother's bright blue eyes. 

Her Grecian nose and chin. 
And all his features are like hers 

Or some one of her kin. 
And yet in thought and act they say 

He rather favors me ; 
God help me be the kind of man. 

That I would have him be. 

I'd have him be a noble man, 
With tender heart, yet strong, 

A friend to everything that's right 
An enemy of wrong; 

To act the true and manly part 
In everyday affairs ; 



74 



Of ready mind to lend a hand 
To lessen others' cares. 

Example is a lot I know, 
And he is watching me — 

God help me be the kind of man 
That I would have him be. 



A man of willing mind and heart 

To help a soul in need, 
Honest and just in all his deals, 

Whose heart yields not to greed ; 
Nor caters to the tricks in trade 

Where stocks are bought and sold, 
That makes the lie a seeming need. 

When truth were better told ; 
A man whose heart may know no guile, 

From foul deception free. 
God help me be the kind of man 

That I would have him be. 



Vd have him love and fear the God 

Our fathers loved and feared, 
And all those sacred rights and forms 

That faith and hope endeared ; 
A lover of the sacred word, 

A hater of the lie — 
Willing for truth to stand or fall. 

Willing to live or die ; 
So 'tis a constant prayer of mine. 

An oft repeated plea, 
God help me be the kind of man 

That I would have him be. 



THE DREAM 

I had a strange dream, and its import was good, 
And in my dream right before me there stood 
A maid as fair as the disc of the sun — 
Fair as a goddess was the stranger one. 



75 



She said, ''Young man, why do you live this way, 
Why do you not live a life that is gay, 
Why do you not dine in fashion's bright halls. 
Eat state dinners and tend masquerade balls?'' 

I lifted my hat, and said with a bow, 

''Who art thou, fair one, and whence comest thou ; 

And do you think where revelry is rife 

rd lead a gayer and happier life?" 

She smiled, and then with a toss of her head, 
Shook out her ringlets and laughingly said : 
"I'm the queen of fashion — I came from town, 
Where pride and fashion in their height abound. 

"Young man, if you'll only listen to me 

I'll make you as happy as man can be; 

ni take you to balls, they're a sight to see. 

And private parties where the wine flows free. 

"We'll float in circles where the brave and fair 
Are ever free from life's toil and care. 
We'll go to the opera, dances, too. 
And tend card parties if it pleaseth you. 

"We'll drink the juice of the grape and the peach, 
And thus by actions to the world will teach 
That a life of fashion, though short, is gay. 
As we drink and revel with 'Bacchus' all day." 

I yielded to her, and to town I went. 
And there the youth of my manhood I spent. 
I mingled with fashion, and spent my time 
In w^orshipping "Bacchus," lord of the vine. 

How I paid expenses may seem strange to you. 
Well, I robbed the widows — and orphans, too — 
I bought on credit and I paid no debt. 
And yet all the while I was fashion's pet. 

Though gay bells of fashion rang their glad chime. 
There seemed to be with me all of the time 
A pestering spirit, an ugly elf. 
Yet seeming to be a part of myself. 



76 



And it led me out 'neath the stars' pale light 
And the clouds came up and dark grew the night; 
I had no need to ask what it was then — 
I knew — conscience, self-accuser of men. 

Then we journeyed on o'er a lonely way, 
And stopped by a pit where deep darkness lay. 
''Oh, this,'' said he, ''is the bottomless pit, 
And Queen Fashion hurls people into it." 

"Ye vot'ry of fashion, there will ye stroll 
When pleasures of fashion cost you your soul." 
Then I 'woke through fear, so real did seem 
The characters of my very strange dream. 



DEFECTS 

I'm a little stoop shouldered, it's a physical defect, 
Brought on by not being taught when young to 

stand erect. 
It's a case of simple habit that made me what I am, 
I stooped a little as a boy, I stoop more as a man. 
Old bones, you know, get full of lime and other 

brittle stuff. 
They're easier to break than bend- — harder, but not 

so tough. 

I am too old to rectify this error of my youth. 

I would be glad to if I could, I'm telling you the 
truth. 

I like to meet men who stand straight, it does me 
lots of good, 

And I would stand as straight as they if I only 
could. 

And though through life I'm doomed to stoop and 
drink this bitter cup. 

Whene'er I meet a soldier boy I feel like straight- 
ening up. 

But physical defects are not the worst that come 

to men, 
A moral deformity is much worse we know in them. 



77 



And how often 'tis through habit a man is made a 

slave, 
Or by bad associations he becomes a fool or knave; 
And he binds himself with chains that he cannot 

lose or break 
And does not realize the truth until it is too late. 

Then teach our boys to stand erect, guard well our 

noble youth. 
Throw them in society that stands up for the truth, 
That their better aspirations overcome their baser 

self, 
And they realize that character is a greater thing 

than wealth. 
And no earthly position is so w^orthy to be sought 
As a conscience free from stain and a pure and 

noble walk. 

* 'MEMORY DAY'* 
(September 30th) 

We will gather in the graveyard 

'Neath the bright autumnal sky, 
Bringing flowers, sweet perfumed 

For the graves where loved ones lie. 
Trimming well each flowering shrub. 

Climbing vine and shading tree, 
'Ere the wintry winds shall still 

Singing bird and humming bee. 

Treat well the ^^City of the Dead," 

Grading up each narrow walk. 
While we care for graves of loved ones 

Let the stranger's lot be sought; 
Straightening up each leaning stone 

With a tender, thoughtful care. 
For as we have loved ones sleeping. 

Some one's loved one sleepeth there. 

'Tis no mark of superstition 
That we yearly gather here. 
But a duty to remember 

And we gather without fear. 



78 



Trusting in the Savior's promise, 
Knowing that beneath the sod 

Only their ashes moulder here 
For their spirits are with God. 

It is good, then, to remember 

Those who passed along before, 
For we shall pass, as they have passed, 

But the grave's an open door; 
And beyond it's darksome portals 

Lies a land, all free from care. 
Where no graveyards mar its beauty 

For no death can enter there. 

We're but waiting for His coming, 

Whose loud shout shall rend the skies, 
And the graves, long closed, shall open. 

And the dead in Christ shall rise, 
Then the general resurrection, 

So the Scriptures, we have read, 
Death and Hell shall yield their harvest. 

And the sea give up its dead. 

If the Lord does not forget them. 

It becometh you and I 
To adorn with grace and beauty 

Each low mound where loved ones lie, 
Looking toward that great reunion 

In the mansions up above. 
Where again we'll meet ovlv dear ones 

Who on earth hath claimed our love. 



PLEA FOR THE COUNTRY CHURCH SERVICE 

For years this old church here has stood, 

A landmark on the hill ; 
A shelter for the brotherhood 

Who love to do God's will; 
A rallying ground for those who bear 

The cross with their dear Lord ; 
Where kindred minds unite in prayer 

And song with sweet accord. 



79 



Those early, rugged pioneers 

Who from the east had come, 
Had brought with them their hopes and fears 

And love for God's dear son; 
They needs must have a place to meet 

Expressive of that love, 
Where they could gather at the feet 

Of him who watched above. 

And so they duly organized 

And reared this building fair. 
And dedicating solemnized 

It as a house of prayer. 
And ever since the gospel light 

Has shone forth in this place 
And blinded souls received their sight 

And pardon through God's grace. 

For there have been revivals here, 

A turning to the Lord ; 
When sin-sick souls were glad to hear 

Of pardon and reward. 
A gathering of golden grain 

From seedings sown in love. 
The early and the latter rain 

Brought blessings from above. 

Forth from this old church home have gone 

Many an earnest heart. 
Who love to teach, in word and song, 

And Gospel truth impart; 
Who, breasted with a world of sin, 

Have won an honored place, 
Because their faith was firm in Him 

Who giveth strength and grace. 

And we, the now remaining few. 

Have met so many times 
And sung that dear old song anew, 

^^Blessed Be the Tie That Binds,'' 



80 



That all our hearts now throb as one 

In fellowship with Him 
Who gave His well beloved Son 

A sacrifice for sin. 

Now if we turn home blessings down 

And close this house of prayer, 
And undertake to drive to town 

And w^orship with them there ; 
We soon will find we're countrified 

And they've a city tone. 
We never will be satisfied 

Or feel its quite like home. 

Besides we have home duties here, 

Which devolve upon us, 
To keep the firelight burning clear 

If we would claim the promise 
To him who's faithful o'er a few, 

Proving by devotion ; 
Because wx're faithful, tried and true 
We're worthy of promotion. 

And have we not room here to sow 

The seed in fertile soil ; 
Who knows how much of it will grow 

As fruitage of our toil. 
The manifest indifference here 

Makes this a fitting field 
For laborers who know no fear, 

Nor willingness to yield. 

Dear friends, to me 'twould seem a sin 

To close yon outer door, 
And turn the rusty key therein 

And worship here no more ; 
To close this house where God has met 

His people all these years ; 
And sinners, too, whose cheeks were wet 

With penitential tears. 



81 



There is a promise, rich and plain, 

That's claimed by two or three, 
Where they are gathered ''in My name," 

The Lord hath said 'T'll be." 
Then let us yield not to despair. 

But seek again the Lord, 
Beseeching Llim in earnest prayer 

To grant us this reward. 

To give us a revival here ; 

Touch tongues w^ith living coals ; 
A jubilee — refreshing year, 

A bringing in of souls ; 
A building up of Zion's walls. 

The breeches to repair ; 
Courage to stand where duty calls. 

More earnestness in prayer. 

THANKSGIVING 

Thanksgiving comes but once a year, 

That is Thanksgiving Day, 
But thankfulness within my heart 

Has truly come to stay; 
And there's a thousand reasons 

Why I should thankful be. 
Chief among them all the fact 

That Jesus died for me. 

Yes, Jesus died for me, for me, 

I've read it in His word, 
And then the Spirit helps me say, 

That Jesus is the Lord ; 
'Tis nothing I have said or done. 

But look upon His face ; 
For now I stand in Christ alone, 

A sinner saved by grace. 

Now the Holy Spirit dwelling 
In this human heart of mine, 

Makes of it a temple holy 
And to God, a living shrine. 



82 



O, the joy I feel in knowing- 
My love for sin has ceased, 

And the Saviour, ever present, 
Is to me a constant feast. 



Yes, and as I sit with Jesus, 

As both my Lord and meat, 
I find the bread of heaven 

Most wonderfully sweet; 
And my life is filled wdth gladness. 

My heart overflows with love, 
As I feast upon the bread 

That is given from above. 

And I love to speak to people 

Of blessings that abound 
In the loving and the serving 

Of the Saviour I have found. 
For I long to share with others 

The truth that makes me free, 
For the sharing but increases 

The joy that's come to me. 

And when my Lord and King shall come 

With hosts of angels bright. 
Ushering in eternal day, 

Dispelling all the night; 
Or should death's cold, relentless hand 

First still my throbbing heart. 
My hope will still shine on as bright. 

It never can be dark. 



For all is brightness where Christ is. 

And all is love supreme, 
And there is naught can separate, 

Though Jordan rolls between ; 
And over on the other shore, 

Dear friends, 'twill ever be 
Thanksgiving, hallelujah. 

Through all eternity. 



83 



WHAT BLESSED COMFORT 

What blessed comfort I have found, 
Oh, what joy in life I see, 
Since on Jesus IVe believed. 
Trusted in his death for me. 
Since I saw in spirit vision 
Jesus hanging on the cross, 
Yes, dying there in agony 
That I may not suffer loss. 

Keep the scene before me ever, 
May the vision ne'er be lost; 
Oh, let me see from day to day 
What a price my freedom cost. 
Daily lead me up Golgatha, 
Where the Prince of Glory died. 
Daily cleanse me in the stream 
Flowing from his wounded side. 

Then let me see his empty tomb, 
That I may know he's risen. 
And lead me to the mountain side, 
Where the great command was giv'n ; 
Let me see my Lord ascending 
To the realm from whence he came ; 
And hear the angel's voice saying 
He will surely come again. 

'Bide thou near me, Holy Spirit, 
Teach me some befitting song. 
In which to praise my Lord and King; 
Help me to sing it all day long. 
For without thy hallowed presence. 
And without thy gracious aid. 
All attempts at praise or worship 
Are but form, and vainly made. 



DONT YOU EVER GET DISCOURAGED 

Along toward the close of the day, 

As the sun sinks in the West, 

And you have labored long and well. 



84 



And have done your level best ; 
And the pleasures and the profits 
Through your fingers seem to slip, 
Don't you ever get discouraged, 
Keep a stiff upper lip. 

Whether seeking fame, or fortune, 
In a business world like this ; 
There is nothing gained by whining 
When our plans all go amiss ; 
What we really need is nerve, 
To fight on and never quit ; 
The mother of success, you know. 
Is a lot of bulldog grit. 

Some other fellow is working 
With half your brains you think. 
Yet he seems to be successful 
In gathering in the chink. 
Just watch him, for a year or two. 
And ma3^be a^ou'II get a tip ; 
Don't 3^ou ever get discouraged. 
You may learn to finance yet. 

But then suppose you never learn 
To be a great financier; 
There are other things and better 
That the wise will hold more dear; 
There's a name without a tarnish. 
There's the white and precious stone. 
Don't you ever get discouraged 
These are treasures you may own. 

But in seeking things eternal 
We must use that vise-like grip. 
That lays hold of the promises 
And will not let them slip ; 
And there are many promises 
Unto him that endures ; 
Don't you ever get discouraged 
And the victor}'^ is yours. 



85 



THE BOUQUET 

The bouquet you gave me, 
Is withered and gone; 
I cared for it kindly, 
It suffered no wrong; 
And yet it has perished, 
Its beauty has fled. 
Its leaves are all withered. 
Its fragrance is dead. 

But a few days ago 
Its colors w^ere bright, 
The blue and the golden, 
The crimson and white, 
All tints of the rainbow 
Were mingling there. 
While its pleasant perfume 
Pervaded the air. 

As I look on those stems 
And dry withered leaves — 
Cast a glance on the past, 
"The future deceives,'' 
I think of life's shortness, 
A span at the best; 
Today we are blooming, 
Tomorrow we rest. 

Reflections — 

Inasmuch as we soon 

Must leave this bright sphere, 

Let our lives, like lilies. 

Be spotless and clear; 

So when we are withered. 

And our spirits fled, 

Our friends love and respect 

And honor their dead. 

For if we are faithful. 
And trusting, you know. 
The blood of the Saviour 
Makes white as the snow : 



86 



Redeeming and cleansing, 
And filling with love, 
Perfecting our title 
To mansions above. 



RING ON, CHURCH BELLS 

Oft as evening shadows fell 
O'er my quiet country home, 
I have heard the old church bell 
In a deep and earnest tone, 
Call the worshipers of God 
To the village chapel where, 
At an early evening hour 
They unite in humble prayer. 

How often I have listened 
To its echo and its swell. 
As fading sunbeams glistened 
Over hillock, plain and dell, 
How my very soul has filled 
With tender earnest feeling 
As pensively I've listened. 
To its loud solemn pealing. 

It seemed as if beseeching 
Every one from far and near, 
To come and hear the teaching 
Of the gospel plain and clear; 
And yet to be commanding, 
In tones that did not falter 
The followers of the Lamb 
To gather 'round the alter. 

And how often I have thought 
Of God's interest in man. 
And the wonders he hath wrought 
Through redemptions loving plan ; 
And my very soul has filled 
With a longing to be there. 
And to join my heart and voice 
With those worshipers in prayer. 



87 



Often sinners too have heard, 
And responding to its call, 
They have listened to the word 
Of the Saviour, unto all. 
And in listening have found 
What a Saviour means to them, 
And have joined in the service 
With a glad heart felt a-men. 

Then ring on, church bells, ring on, 
Till the hills reverberate 
With the call to prayer and song 
And slumbering souls awake; 
Yes, ring on, church bells, ring on, 
Oft repeat the earnest call 
Till all own the love of God, 
And the Christ as all in all. 



SERMONETTE IN RHYME 

Some things in life seem very strange, 

And hard to understand, 
Until we see above them all 

A Father's loving hand. 
Why sorrow comes to mar our joy. 

Our nerves be racked with pain. 
Until we learn that every tear 

Flov^^s for our lasting gain. 

We meet with losses with bad grace, 

And grumble at our fate ; 
We bow beneath our daily load 

As if of mighty weight; 
Or labor on in sullen mood, 

Rebellious toward God's will. 
Until we learn that losses tend 

To make us richer still. 

Go look upon the sturdy oak 

That for an age has stood 
Out in the open field alone. 

Not in the sheltered wood. 



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Mark well its massive trunk, 

Its strong wide spreading limbs, 

That bid defiance to the storms • 

And mocks the fiercest winds. 

The sun and winds have tempted it 

And made its fibers strong, 
Till now it stands a monarch there 

Where it has suffered long. 
So we who meet adversity 

And suffer pain and sorrow, 
And bear it patiently today, 

Will stronger be tomorrow. 

Our losses will increase our store 

Of riches up above, 
When we have learned that chastenings come 

Because of Father's love. 
And all the little ills of life 

As told in sacred story. 
Work out for us a greater weight 

Of exceeding glory. 

Then let us bear with patience dear 

Each little pain and loss, 
In fellowship with Him who bore 

Our sins upon the cross. 
For if we suffer with Him here 

We shall be glorified 
With Him, and share the victory 

For which he came and died. 



IF WE ONLY HAD THE GRACE 

There's a lot of moralizing 

In this old, old world today. 
And a lot of" old recipes 

That are helpful in a way; 
And I noticed in our paper. 

In a little paragraph, 
A panacea for all ills, 

And the remedy was "laugh." 



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Now Tm not a grouchy fellow, 

Nor a hopeless pessimist, 
But I do some honest thinking 

And my doctrine is this — 
That to every human being. 

As we journey day by day, 
Comes darks clouds of grief and sorrow 

That we cannot laugh away. 

Yes, I like those hopeful fellows 

That most always wear a smile, 
And seldom ever have the blues, 

And are pleasant all the while; 
And no matter what the weather. 

Or how rough may be their path. 
They are always blithe and cheerful 

And are ready for a laugh. 

But there are times it seems to me, 

When to laugh would be a sin ; 
Times when its hardly proper 

For a fellow just to grin; 
Times when a sympathetic tear 

Is more helpful than a jest, 
For it gets a little closer 

To the' heart by sorrow pressed. 

If we but only had the grace 

To do the thing that's meet. 
Rejoice with those who do rejoice. 

And weep with those who weep ; 
There'd be a closer touch of hearts 

In this old, old world I trust. 
More spiritual helpfulness 

And less dust trusting in dust. 

CHILDREN'S DAY 

When the birds are singing sweetly 
And the flowers are in bloom. 

We are want to gather yearly 
On the second week in June ; 



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And in these annual meetings 
We sing, and speak, and pray. 

And we put the children foremost, 
And we call it children's day. 

How thoughtful and how good of God 

To give us birds and flowers, 
To bless and beautify the earth 

And cheer these hearts of ours. 
Still I find a richer blessing 

And a pleasure far more dear, 
In the bright and beaming faces 

Of the children gathered here. 

As I look into their bright eyes, 

Whether gray, or brown, or blue, 
I see beneath the surface 

Hearts that are warm and kind and true 
And souls that are untainted 

With the stain of willful sin, 
And I pray the Father ever 

To keep them pure within. 

For these are the richest treasures 

Heaven to earth hath given, 
'Twas of them the Saviour said, 

"Such is the kingdom of heaven." 
And earth would indeed be dreary 

With all of its birds and flowers, 
Were it not for the love and cheer 

Of these boys and girls of ours. 

Then let's give heed to the children 

Who are gathered here today, 
And listen with loving patience 

To all they have to say; 
As they tell the mission stor}^, 

In prose, and in rhyme, and in song, 
Respond with a cheerful offering 

To carry the work along. 



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PRAYER TO THE SPIRIT 

Come, thou blessed Paraclete, 
Vicar of our Lord on earth ; 
Thou who in the upper room 
Had Thy natal hour and birth ; 
And to Whom it hath been giv'n 
From the one eternal Throne, 
To reveal the will of heav'n 
And to guide the piglrim home. 

Come, thou blessed Spirit, come, 
And reveal God's will to me ; 
Reign within my heart as one 
Who hath sole authority. 
And His richest grace impart. 
That in love I may obey. 
From a true and single heart. 
His commands from day to day. 

Come, O Comforter^ and bring 
Joy and peace to my sad heart; 
Sin thou hast reproved me of. 
Now His righteousness impart. 
Seems I hear Thy voice saying, 
I am not to suffer loss. 
For the Saviour paid it all 
When He judged sin on the cross. 

Thou source of consolation. 
More than life itself to me ; 
Come, assuring Spirit, come, 
And from doubts, O set me free. 
Do not leave me comfortless, 
For Thy presence still I yearn ; 
Stay Thou near and comfort me 
Till the blessed Lord return. 

Then in glory raise me up, 
As with shout the Lord descends. 
And voice of ransomed sinners 
With the songs of angels blends. 



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And in tremendous chorus 
All the vast unnumbered host, 
Peal forth Thy endless praises, 
Father, Son and Holy Ghost. 



CONFIDENCE 

I know not why that God permits 
Sin seemingly to rule and reign, 
I know not why that man should be 
A subject of disease and pain; 
I know not why great wrongs exist 
And suf rings met with everywhere, 
I only know that God is love. 
And we are objects of His care. 

Although I do not understand 
The hidden ways of Providence, 
Fm sure that nothing ever comes 
By the unthinking ways of chance; 
And He who guides a million worlds 
Unerring on through time and space, 
Will pilot me through calm and storm 
And keep me by His love and grace. 

For when God gave His only Son 

To die upon the cursed tree, 

His v/ondrous interest was shown. 

In fallen, frail humanity. 

And so I pray for grace to trust 

In places where I cannot see, 

For with one trusting hand in His, 

I know that all is well with me. 

Although I cannot pierce the gloom 
With eyes of flesh by nat\re dim, 
I journey on in hopeful mood, 
Trusting the outcome all to Him. 
And then when I shall come to see 
And know^ also as I am knov/n, 
Fll see the wisdom of God's ways, 
And the great blindness of my own. 



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FAITH, MY AEROPLANE 

Faith is my aeroplane 

Upon which I daily rise 
Up above the gloom of earth 

To the clearer, brighter skies ; 
Soaring on its ample wings 

Above earth's highest boundary line ; 
Dwelling up above the clouds 

Where the sun shines all the time. 

Dreaming of the golden city 

Which seems at times almost in sight, 
Where they need no sun nor moon, 

For the Lord God is its light. 
And by faith I walk the streets 

Where no pain or death is known, 
And sorrow has no biding place 

Before the dazzling throne. 

Yes, I know my aeroplane 

Eventually returns to earth. 
Where tears, and pain, and sorrows reign, 

And death stalks after human birth. 
But some day it is sure to rise 

Upon its heaven-born wing. 
Bearing me swiftly, sweetly on. 

To the land where angels sing. 

O' blessed faith, that gives us hold 

On things eternal in the skies ; 
God given hope and love divine 

O'U which the waiting soul may rise, 
Above all pain, and toil, and grief. 

To Him who suffered more than we, 
To win us from our sinful selves 

And make us what we ought to be. 



94 



WE'RE TO BEHOLD HIS GLORY 

(John 17) 

One of the sweet things in the word, 

One of the blessings given, 
Is the prayer that our Saviour made 

When He looked up to heaven, 
And said in sweet accents divine, 

''O Father, the hour is come ; 
I have finished the work you gave, 

O, glorify now Thy Son/' 

And in that prayer of our Saviour 

There's a beautiful story; 
O, we are to be where He is, 

Wfe're to behold His glory. 
O, what a sweet story it is, 

O, what a rapture made known. 
We are to behold His glory — 

Be gathered around His throne. 



Kept in the w^orld from the evil, 

Kept in the Father's own name ; 
O, we're to be one as they are. 

United in love the same. 
All we who love the Redeemer, 

Whose spirits with His accord, 
O, we're to behold His glory. 

We're to abide with the Lord. 



And in that bright home of the soul, 

The best and the dearest thing 
Will be to behold His glory — 

Look on the face of our King; 
And sing the song of redemption. 

How with His own precious blood, 
He paid the price of our pardon. 

Redeemed us unto our God. 



95 



ANDERSONVILLE 

What dire, heartrending scene is this 

O'Dea v/ith wondrous skill hath wroug-ht? 

Hath Satan lent his fiendish aid. 

That he from bounds of hell hath brought 

A picture of such want and woe 

As mortals never feel or know? 

Ah, no! That scene of want and wrong 

Was from the artist's mem'ry drawn, 

And represents that filthy den 

Known as the cursed rebel pen. 

Where fifteen thousand boys as true 

As ever wore the garb of blue, 

Succumbed to rebel rage and hate 

And the fixed laws of death and fate. 

Look now upon that filthy stream 

Of water, flowing through that pen. 

Where five and thirty thousand men 

Are crowded like so many swine ; 

And maggots by the million teem 

And crawl and writhe and intertwine 

Themselves — a sickening, lothesome sight. 

That tongue nor pen can well define, 

Or half describe the wretch's plight 

Who, severed from his home and friends, 

In that vile field existence ends, 

Or lingers on by fate's decree. 

The mate of misery to be ; 

Where every breath of fetid air 

Is mingled with a curse or prayer; 

No artist can o'erdraw the scene, 

Or poet yet exhaust the theme 

Of cruelty, and shame, and crime 

Performed within that stockade line, 

Where mis'ry came with every breath, 

And life was but a living death ; 

Where death was welcome ; yet the soul 

Was ever loath to humbly yield 

To prison fare and its control ; 

The spirit, that on bloody field 

Had urged it on to noble strife 

That meant our Union's death or life. 



96 



Brave men on fields of crimson flow 
Risked life and limb with Joy to know 
That every man that died to save 
His country filled a hero's grave. 
But thus to pine in rebel pen 
Was treble martyrdom to them, 
And brought no glory to the man 
Who wroug'ht the fiendish, hellish plan 
Of wrecking vengeance on a foe 
By freezing, starving, sure and slow. 
But theirs the glory, his the shame ; 
For those proud hearts no ill could tame. 
Up from those ghastly scenes of death, 
And unto him who gave them breath 
Their spirits just as free have flown 
As though they had no anguish known — 
From such a hell on earth set free, 
Doubly blessed in heaven to be, 
If in the Lamb's blood washed and clean 
They entered on the heavenly scene. 
God bless that Pious man, I say. 
Who with our dying came to pray 
And point them to the crimson stream 
For cleansing souls and making clean, 
A.nd fit to enter heaven above. 
Where all is light and life and love. 

Some twenty feet from the stockade base, 

By that dark line its wanderings trace. 

The dead line is, where none may press. 

On penalty of instant death. 

Hark ! Hear that rifle's ringing crack, 

And see that form come reeling back ! 

Lifeless it strikes the turfless clod ; 

Its spirit hath returned to God. 

And he who that foul deed hath done 

The envy of his comrades won. 

And from his chief, unstinted praise, 

And leave of absence, thirty days. 

Oh, God ! How^ can men sink so low 

That they no spark of mercy show 

To fellow men, whom war's fierce blast 



97 



Helpless into their hands hath cast? 
Heard ye that mocking voice that said : 
*'Come, dying men, bring out your dead !" 
Saw ye that lumbering cart of gloom, 
Bearing its burden to the tomb? 
Heard ye its heartless driver's jest, 
Whose soul no pity doth invest — 
So hardened by such deeds of shame, 
No spark of mercy doth remain, 
And as his ghastly load moves on 
Strikes the air of some rude song? 
See ye that trench on yonder hill? 
That is the grave our martyrs fill. 
And oft that cart with ghastly load 
Moves up the same well-trodden road. 
Yea, every morning, night and noon. 
It hastes to feed the hungry tomb. 
Which, glutted with its ghastly prey, 
Grows wider and more wide each day. 
O mother earth ! Within thy breast 
Thy weary sons at length find rest — 
Sweet rest from foul disease and pain — - 
Sweet rest to those by hunger slain. 

'Tis sweet to live in health and strength, 
'Mid those we love and happy homes, 
Where childish laughter greets our ears. 
And music wafts its soothing tones, 
And heart to heart beats warm and true, 
And none hath cause to make ado ; 
Where all is faith and hope and love — 
A life akin to that above. 
Then life's a thing we love to keep ; 
Then life indeed is very sv/eet. 
'Tis sweet to die when sorrovv^ throws 
Along our path its bitter woes, 
And friends are gone, and hope is vain, 
And life is but a thorny way 
That wounds us sorely every day. 
Our vessel on the stormy main. 
That by some angry tempest tossed, 
At midnight with its bearings lost. 



98 



Upon some hidden breaker cast — 

Its hold with water filling fast — 

Still plunging midst the tempest's roar, 

Without one chance of gaining shore : 

The sooner sunk the sooner rest 

To those wild hearts by terror pressed, 

That beat upon that ship whose doom 

In mercy cannot come too soon ; 

Or when the body, racked with pain 

Of some disease, for years hath lain 

Helpless upon the fevered bed. 

Of life, no hope of death, no dread. 

Then death's a messenger of peace — 

Then death is but a sweet release. 

If sweet to these, then doubly sweet 

To those within that dreadful keep. 

Whom foul disease hath stricken low. 

And death is claiming but too slow. 

Haste on apace, O death, and claim 

Another 'mong thy myriads slain 

By want of food and proper care, 

By brutal usage and foul air, 

By loathsome sores, in which gangrene 

In all its dreaded forms is seen. 

And flies, a w^oeful prison pest. 

Have laid their eggs as in a nest. 

And worms begin to crawd and eat 

The flesh of him that's much too weak 

To cast them from his putrid sores. 

Thy agents, O, grim death, to seek 

The spirit's slow yet glad retreat 

From that foul pen to brighter shores. 

O friends, this is a dreadful theme — 

It soundeth like a fitful dream ! 

But O, alas, it is too true — 

Ex-prisoners of that fearful keep 

Much darker stories oft repeat, 

And paint them in a deeper hue. 

Come, brother, see thy brother die 

Beneath the dews of southern sky — 

No shelter o'er his fainting head ; 

No couch; but earth his dying bed. 



99 



Come, sister, kiss thy brother's cheek, 
And send him forth to meet the foe, 
And hope no more his face to meet . 
While thou remainest here below. 
Oh, father, look upon thy son, 
Thine image when that thou wast young! 
In manly strength and vigor strong, 
A friend to right, a foe to wrong, 
And see him donning army blue. 
And marching forth to dare and do. 
Now look upon thy joy and pride. 
Who hath in rebel prison died. 
And feel what fathers felt who gave 
Their sons, the nation for to save. 
O, mother, on whose gentle breast 
Thy infant son finds peaceful rest, 
And mother's hope, and mother's joy 
Is made complete in thy dear boy ; 
O let thy mind in fancy fly, 
As though the years sped swiftly by. 
And now to manhood see him grown, 
In pride he leaves the dear old home, 
For fields where bullets thickly fly, 
To nobly live, or nobly die. 
Now change the scene — he lieth there — 
No mother's kiss, no mother's prayer; 
No mother's hand to hold that head 
That sinks unconscious 'mong the dead. 
O, mother, can you feel or know 
What mothers felt whose boys die so? 
Sweetheart, look upon thy lover — 
And feel 'tis he and not another 
That in that fearful prison lies 
While tears of sorrow fill thine eyes. 
O feel the long and last caress. 
Thy throbbing heart to his close press ; 
And then that pressure of the hand 
That lovers only understand ; 
The parting kiss, the gasping breath ; 
Thy love within the folds of death ; 
Thus taste the bitter, bitter draught 
That love in times of war hath quaft. 



100 



A mist, comes o'er the eyes of all; 
In pity let the curtain fall, 
And hide from view the scene of woe, 
While tears of feeling gently flow. 



PART 11. 

Come, look once more upon the scene. 

Those graves are spread with mantle green, 

And a white slab placed at the head 

O^f each green mound where rests the dead ; 

And a tall granite hath risen, 

Pointing its spire toward heaven, 

In sacred memory of those 

Who sank beneath relentless foes. 

Yet not upon the field of fame. 

By swords or bullets were they slain. 

Where warlike souls in fearless mood 

Come rushing forth in streams of blood ; 

But their's a fate which codes of war 

Forbid, and all brave men abhor. 

They died of hunger, thirst and cold. 

And on those slabs their names enrolled 

To show, in part, the sacrifice 

Our nation made of human life 

To free four million helpless slaves. 

And sink forever 'neath the waves 

Of blood — O dreadful crimson sea — 

The error of State sovereignty. 

But many years have passed since then, 
And North and South are one again. 
The olive o'er the nation waves, 
And hands are clasped o'er heroes' graves 
Yea, we one mighty nation are, 
In spite of all the clouds of v/ar; 
And o'er the graves of gray and blue 
Love's gentle hands bright flowers strew. 
Yet let none boast what they have done — 
What battles fought, what vict'ries won — 
For know^ that but for God's right hand 



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This nation were divided land, 
And would in truth two nations be 
In stead of one in unity. 
But let us who have known not war, 
Ne'er cease to laud and honor those 
Who faced it and its dreadful woes 
In all the forms that men abhor; 
Or prison fare, or battle's heat, 
To save our armies from defeat. 
And let us all give oblations 
To the Ruler of all nations, 
Who, sitting on His throne above. 
Guides the storms of war with love. 
Yea, may we all, with one accord, 
Pray to Israel's Mighty Lord, 
In the name of Christ, his son, 
Ever to protect the Union. 




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